


Ipso Facto (Things I've Learnt About A Boy)

by essieincinci



Series: No Finer Mess To Be Found [10]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Tattoos, Chubby Kink, Daddy Kink, Dom/sub, M/M, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, chubby bucky
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-28
Updated: 2016-07-03
Packaged: 2018-05-23 19:53:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 30
Words: 25,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6128293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/essieincinci/pseuds/essieincinci
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>No Finer Mess bits, pieces, time-stamps, and sundries mostly prompted on tumblr.<br/>The chapters / stories are self-contained (within the verse) and not necessarily in chronological order.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> hotmessalina asked: we know Clint can handle getting shit from strangers like a pro (“because fuck you, I’m pretty” yes!), and Phil has learned to handle his family, but how does Phil handle people making *assumptions* that Clint’s just his boy toy or something about their age/class differences and generally being rude about him. I can’t decide if shining-armor Phil would thrill or upset Clint.
> 
> Title from Something to Talk About by Badly Drawn Boy.
> 
> Unbeta'd.

Clint’s hanging around the shop, half-heartedly updating the flash books on the counter (that no one who knows what they’re doing looks through, because  _ Steve Rogers _ , but hey, pays the bills, and the shop babies need to know how to tattoo a flaming skull or whatever before Steve’ll trust them to try a watercolor geometric print even on the fake practice skin.)

He’s supposed to meet Coulson there at seven, and Coulson’s never late. Coulson is extremely punctual. And, yes, technically he isn’t  _ late _ , as it’s only 6:57, so there’s no reason Clint should be experiencing the tight feeling in his chest and the restlessness in his legs and his brain telling him to  _ go go go _ .

Clint hasn’t gotten to where he is in life without listening to his intuition, but he also hasn’t gotten to where he is in his relationship without listening to his Dom. Coulson told him, “wait for me at the shop. I’ll meet you at seven.”

And it’s only 6:58, and Coulson is extremely punctual, so there’s no reason to worry.

He walks over to the door again and puts the toe of his sneaker on the threshold and leans as far out of the shop as he can, technically not breaking the rules. He is, in fact, still in the shop.

Actually, Coulson told him to wait  _ at  _ the shop, not  _ in _ the shop, so he could, really, go all the way to the edge of the building. If he keeps his foot on the wall, he is, really, still at the shop. Even if that doesn’t extend his field of vision by much.

It’s only 6:59. Coulson is very punctual.

And  _ really _ , Coulson’s a lawyer. It’s all about the spirit of the law, not the letter. “At the shop” is really, in spirit, “somewhere in the vicinity of the shop,” right?

That’s what Coulson probably meant.

So as long as Clint can see the shop, right, he’s “at the shop”. Ipso facto.

And Clint can see the shop from very far away.

Even at 7pm.

Really, Clint can see the shop from Coulson’s office. Sort of.

Like, he knows where the shop  _ is _ . That’s the important part.

So that’s his rationale for walking all the way to the office, checking behind him every few steps.

(He is also praying with every fiber of his being not worried about Coulson that none of the businesses on the streets he passes have any kind of break ins this evening, because he looks  _ suspicious as fuck _ , but hey. Can’t be helped. At least Coulson had him dress in a  nice suit this morning, not his usual ratty jeans and t-shirt. Maybe they’ll go for a late dinner and Coulson will talk to the maitre d’ and he’ll have a better alibi than “well, officer, I couldn’ta done it, see, because my boyfriend had me cuffed the our bed and was striping my back with our new suede flogger at the time. Wanna see?”)

So Clint’s a little shocked, naturally, when he opens the door to Coulson’s office just in time to see him throw the most beautifully efficient punch Clint’s ever seen, all the power coming straight from the hips, landing perfectly on the corner of his latest intern’s jaw.

The intern hits the floor, Coulson rolls his sleeve back down and refixes his cuff links.

All in the time it takes Clint to blink.

“Clint,” Coulson says calmly. “I apologize for running behind. I was,” and here Coulson works his jaw briefly, rolls his shoulders back, once, and reaches behind himself for his suit jacket. “detained. Leo?” Coulson raises his voice just slightly, and Fitz scuttles into the room.

He takes one quick glance around the room, taking in the knocked-out intern, Clint, and then Coulson. “Oh dear. Finally got what was coming to him, did he?”

“I trust you can settle things for the evening?” Coulson says, though it’s not so much a question as it is a statement of fact. “I’m late for an engagement.”

“Of course. Enjoy your evening.”

Clint can’t even be bothered to mess with Fitz. He just looks around the office as if he’s never seen it before, and follows Coulson when he brushes by him, patting him on the arm and murmuring a quiet, “let’s go, sweet boy.”

*

It wasn't until after the salad course that Coulson mentioned it.

(It was a fancy restaurant, and Clint made sure to speak to the maitre d’ just in case, though he was considering slipping him all the extra cash on him - even the sweaty fifty he always kept in his shoe - if he’d fudge on their arrival time. Coulson’s alibi was priority. Clint could do time. Clint would be okay in prison. Coulson. Well, Coulson would actually probably do well in prison, too. Not that he’d ever go to prison. But it never hurt to have an extra alibi.)

“So, uh. You gonna tell me what I walked in on, or am I supposed to pretend you don’t know how to KO a guy without wrinkling your shirt?”

“Hmm,” Coulson said, spreading butter on the last bite of bread. “Wasn’t one of my finer moments.”

“Disagree.”

“I try not to settle my arguments with my fists anymore,” Coulson deflected. 

“Anymore?”

“One day I’ll tell you about my college years, sweet boy.”

“But not today?” 

“Not today.” Coulson leaned back in his chair as their waiter came by to clear the salad plates away. 

“But about today,” Clint said.

Coulson took a long moment, looking Clint over. It chilled Clint to his very bones. “Oh,” he said, voice small. He looked away, at the restaurant’s patrons, men in suits, women in pearls. Clint was wearing what Coulson had picked out for him that morning, and the clothes weren’t out of place.

But the man wearing them was. “It was about me, wasn’t it?”

“Clint - “

“Sir, don’t,” Clint shrugged, took a drink of his wine, turned the fork over and back.

“Yes, it was about you. Or rather, my involvement with you.”

“You couldn’t just fire him, like you did with the others?”

“Not this time.”

“You gonna tell me what he said?”

“I’d rather not.”

Clint waited until the waiter placed their entrees in front of them. “It was pretty hot.”

“Thank you.”

“So, Sir,” Clint said, toeing off his sneaker under the table and reaching out with his foot to find Coulson’s ankle. Fancy restaurants were pretentious and made him itchy, but Clint was forever in love with floor-length table cloths. “If we were in prison, do you think you’d be my protector?”


	2. You Looked Me Square in the Eye More Than Once Tonight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked: for Clint/Coulson in No Finer Mess whose idea was it to be 24/7? How did that conversation go?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from Lucero's Hey Darlin Do You Gamble
> 
> Unbeta'd

Clint was in his third week of his internship at Stark Industries and finishing his Spring semester. The internship paid, which was one up from some of his classmates, but it didn’t pay much, and Clint still had bills to pay. His hours got cut at the restaurant, so he grabbed a couple of shifts at some trendy retail shop that Peggy was never allowed to know he worked at, and pushed a broom around a warehouse Tuesdays and Thursdays. He rarely saw Coulson, working so much, and he had committed to filling in with Jessica’s band while their drummer and her girlfriend have a baby.

So he set up a meeting for a working lunch; he probably shouldn’t but was totally going to claim this as a meeting with his mentor.  Dom, mentor. Close enough for government work.

Clint babbled to keep from falling asleep or getting on his knees and butting his head against Coulson’s legs like a cat begging for pets. Probably the cat thing. “Did you know Stark has a coporation, Phil? Like, with cubicles and conference rooms and interoffice politics and fights over corner offices and water cooler talk around a real water cooler?”

“I did,” Coulson smiled indulgently. “They’re my biggest client.”

“At the label?”

“As a lawyer,” Coulson clarified, taking a sip of his mineral water.

“Oh, right. Right, you have a reason to wear those fancy suits aside from how devastatingly handsome you are.”

“Whereas you, sweet boy, are simply eye candy in yours,” Phil flirted back. “Did you have a good time drumming last night?”

“Oh yeah,” Clint rolled his eyes. “Steve met this dancer, thick guy. Probably used to wrestle or something. Sweet blackbird tattoo on his bicep.” He snorted out a laugh, then blushed with a little embarrassment at the noise. “When he flexes, he can make it fly. He got Steve a little willingly tipsy and convinced him to come up into the cage with him.”

“Hmm. I bet that painted a pretty picture.”

“Yeah. They were _quite_ the draw.”

“Think it’ll go somewhere?”

Clint thought about it for a minute, sat back and let their waitress set their entrees in front of them. Coulson thanked her and Clint absently echoed him.

“No. The guy’s nice, but he’s dumb as a box of hammers. He’s never going to challenge Steve, and he’ll get bored pretty soon. Probably pick a stupid fight. They’re going to have some fun until it blows up, though.”

“Ah, well. He’ll find someone. You going to tell me what’s bothering you?”

“Nothing’s bothering me.” Clint suddenly found his pasta al whatever absolutely fascinating.

“Clint.”

“I’m just tired,” he said. It came out as more of a question, and he winced, knowing he was caught. He sighed. “They offered me a position with the company after I graduate.”

“That’s great news!” Coulson smiled at him, his eyes crinkling like they did whenever he was genuinely happy.

“Yeah.” Clint tried to smile back, but even he knew it didn’t reach his eyes.

“But,” Coulson lead him on.

“It’s a great opportunity, I know that,” The words poured out of him in a rush. “On the other hand, I don’t want to work in a cube farm. On the other, _other_ hand, I shouldn’t turn down something like this. I’m not a spring chicken any more. But over here on hand number four, there’s gotta be something else out there. And shouldn’t I look for something that makes me happy? Shouldn’t I, you know, follow my bliss or something? But who am I kidding? Just tell me what to _dooooooooo_ ,” Clint whined, thunking his head against the table.

“I’m here as Phil-your-boyfriend, Clint, not Sir-your-Dom,” Phil said carefully, setting his cutlery down next to his plate. He tried to be very clear about drawing the lines, about leaving his instincts in the bedroom where they belong. He didn’t want to cross the boundaries he and Clint spent so much time, so _very much_ painstaking time negotiating. He didn’t want to push, take too much control of everything: ordering for Clint, telling him what to do, what to wear, keeping him safe and happy like everything in him screamed at him to do.

“But … you could be,” Clint said slowly, turning his head and cracking one eye open. His nose pushed his plate away. He sat up carefully. “You could. People do that, I know they do. You made me read all those stupid books. Sorry, instructional books. You could. You could tell me what to do _all the time_.”

“Clint - “

“You’d be so good at it. So good.”

“Clint.”

“No, Phil, _Sir_ , think about it.”

“Clint - “

“No, listen. Think about it. I’m not saying you have to answer me right now. Just think about it. Really think about it. Even if you don’t want to. I know I’m a lot to take on just a sometimes basis. But give it some thought. Just to make me feel better.”

Phil took a breath. “Okay, Clint. Okay.”


	3. All the Suburban Soldiers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked: Do CPB and Steve visit Jensen while they're on the road?  
> caligularib asked: what would happen if CPB Steve & Bucky met Jensen & Cougar (and the rest of the Losers if you want)?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cougar and Jensen are from The Losers, which everyone should watch, and who occasionally pop up in this verse, because why not? I didn't tag them because I don't want to mislead anyone looking for Jensen/Cougar and trick them into reading 200k of what is, aside from a sentence or two, not Jensen/Cougar. 
> 
> That would be mean. 
> 
> Title from Bayside's A Call to Arms 
> 
> Unbeta'd

They make plans. There are skype calls and texts and preparations. Bucky, Jensen, and Cougar have both in- and ex-filtrated places that don’t even officially  _ exist _ . 

And yet. 

Every time, every  _ freaking _ time they try to get together, something happens. 

Steve comes down with chicken pox. Chicken pox! What is he, seven? No, because chicken pox for seven-year-old Steve would be no big deal. Chicken pox for grown up Steve is a hell of an ordeal.

Cougar breaks his leg in a manner no one will talk about, which Bucky believes means is entirely Jensen’s fault. 

ToJu comes down with chicken pox. This is a completely separate incident and Steve will not be blamed. He will, however, volunteer himself and Bucky for babysitting duty, since “We’ve both had it, we’ll be fine. You can’t get it twice, right?”

Wrong. 

Steve gets chicken pox  _ again _ . Somehow it’s even worse this time. It's also the third time; he'd forgotten about the time when he was six. 

"To be fair, Bucky, you can't expect him to remember every time he's been in hospital," Peggy says, patting Bucky's arm.

Clint takes a different approach, and calls repeatedly to ask, “Hey, Stevie, how’s the herp?” and then cackle maniacally.

Both Steve and Jensen coincidentally get food poisoning while they are still three states apart. 

Bucky gets the flu. 

At which point Cougar calls Bucky (on the phone. to  _ talk _ .) and tells him the universe clearly does not want them to get together. Cougar has had enough odds-defying for one lifetime, gracias. He is in no way willing to tempt fate again. 

Bucky agrees.

* * *

When they do run into each other it’s a complete coincidence. Jensen and Cougar are doing their security merc thing (Jensen basically gets paid to hack things and expose weaknesses in networks. It’s the best job ever. Cougar gets to break into places. It is also the best job ever. Bonus: sneaky stealth Cougar is the sexiest Cougar, right up there with sleep-rumpled, shirtless-in-just-his-pajama-pants Cougar and about-to-give-Jensen-a-blow-job Cougar.)

They’re in a coffee shop and Steve recognizes Jensen. The two of them get into this strange leap-of-logic conversation about tattoos (Steve sketches the rough outline of a biomechanical thing Jensen loves but will never go through with getting. He doesn’t correct people when they make fun of him for being afraid of needles or laugh at his cliched “drunken mistake” tattoo, but Cougar knows it’s actually because he’s afraid of the illusion of permanence. Jensen refuses to believe even a tattoo won’t somehow magically get up and leave him one day. Not even the one he has.)

Bucky catches Cougar giving Steve a strange look - somewhere not close enough to  _ I’d like to hit that _ to upset Bucky, but a little too close to  _ I am figuring you out _ for Bucky to let it go.

“Que pasa?” he asks, sotto voce. 

Cougar tips his chin at Jensen and Steve and takes a slow drink of his coffee before answering back in Spanish. “They look alike. Are they related?”

“What? No? What?” Bucky says, startled back into English.

“Buck? You okay?” Steve asks, pen hovering just above the notebook where he’s shading in the part that would be wires wrapping around Jensen’s elbow.

Bucky nods and waits for Steve to turn back to his drawing. “They don’t look anything alike,” he tells Cougar. 

“They do. They could be twins,” Cougar says.

Bucky squints at them again, then shakes his head. “How did you make that shot in Challapata with eyesight that bad?”


	4. I Think It’s Really Cool That You’re Concerned

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked: is there ever a time when Steve gets slightly more seriously sick and CPBucky loses a bunch of weight over the course of a few weeks from a combination of worry, sleepless nights and crappy hospital food. Just pondering because the only times I've weighed my least were when a loved one was hospitalized and all food just tastes like rocks, wondering what Steve would think of Bucky at his skinniest in those circs.
> 
> Anonymous asked: With cpb bucky hovering over Steve when he's hospitalised/ill, what's steve like when the roles reversed & buckys ill or been taken to A&E?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from Suzanne Vega's Blood Makes Noise
> 
> unbeta'd

Bucky’s always been a comfort-eater, even if he wouldn’t describe himself that way. Even if he’s not tasting it, even if he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it, there’s something comforting and comfortable about sitting down and filling his stomach with something. It means he’s got enough to eat, for one thing. It means he’s safe enough to eat, for another. And eating too much, enough so that he’s slow and heavy and lazy? That’s the best comfort of all. Because if all of his guards are down enough for that, it means he’s home and not … anywhere else.

Even when everything else is a jumbled up mess, when his whole  _ life  _ is lying cold and pale and hooked up to machines that beep and hiss, there’s a routine to heading to the cafeteria with Sam while Peggy sits by Steve’s bedside, to the diner with Clint when Coulson convinces him he really, really,  _ really  _ needs a shower, to unwrapping whatever it was Bruce brought him this time. 

When Steve’s finally better (which of course he is, of course,  _ of course _ ) and actually feeling well - really well, in all reality and actuality, not just him saying he’s better, because  _ Steve  _ \- and they climb into bed, and Steve’s done yelling at him “ain’t gonna break me, Buck, come  _ on _ , it’s been ages, please,  _ please _ , Bucky” and it’s not like Bucky can resist Steve begging. After all that, when Steve’s head is pillowed on Bucky’s chest and Steve’s rubbing circles on Bucky’s stomach, Steve pauses. Sits up. 

“You were really worried I guess,” he says, because he’s a fucking dumbass who still doesn’t seem to understand that he’s Bucky’s entire  _ world _ . 

Which is what Bucky responds with, leading to round one point five. (Not round two, because Steve’s better, but he’s not  _ superman _ , and quite frankly, neither is Bucky. It was a long, long week.)

“You lost some weight is all,” Steve says, later. 

“Yeah, some,” Bucky shrugs. “That a problem?”

“No!” Steve shouts, then coughs. Just a normal cough, something light and barely-there. Nothing to worry about. “No. Of course not.”

“I know. I was teasing you.”

“That’s not nice.”

“You’re not nice.”

“Lies. I am the most nice,” Steve huffs. After a long couple of minutes, minutes that Bucky thought Steve had fallen asleep, honestly. Had hoped Steve had fallen asleep, because he was halfway there himself, Steve asks, quietly, “You like it?”

“Huh?”

Steve doesn’t move, really. “The weight loss. Do you like it?”

“Wasn’t exactly a goal of mine. Just kinda happened.”

“Oh,” Steve says.

“But now that you’re feeling better, I figure you’re going to be taking me out, feeding me cookies, ordering me cheese fries - “

“You love cheese fries.”

“I love cheese fries.”

“And cookies.”

“Pancakes,” Bucky sighs.

“Blueberry muffins.”

“Bacon cheeseburgers.”

“Enchiladas.”

“Ice cream sundaes.”

“Mashed potatoes,” Steve murmurs, and that’s when round one-point-five officially becomes round two.

* * *

Bucky never gets sick enough to go to the hospital. He gets the occasional cold, the flu every couple of years, but he doesn’t really get sick. 

He does, sometimes, get injured. 

Steve gets angry. 

Angry at Bucky, angry at the ladder, angry at the window, angry at Clint. 

“Why me? I wasn’t even there!” 

“Well, you should have been!” Steve shouts, and kicks the trash can across the room.

His worry turns from anger to panic when he’s taken back to see Bucky, arm in a cast and bruises all down his side. 

“Hey, hey, babe, I’m fine, it’s good, the right side was due for some action.”

“Shut up, oh my god, look at you, you’re purple all the way down!”

“Come on, breathe with me. That’s it, in and out, there you go.”

Panic turns into hovering once they get home, and Bucky keeps requesting things: a blanket and soup and ice water and another pillow and on and on and on until Steve finally just sits down. 

Once Bucky can get him settled next to him (”I’m on the wrong side,” Steve whines after a jaw-cracking yawn.) and still and warm, he’ll pass out. 

Which he does. 

When he wakes up, Bucky’ll distract him by letting him go to town on the cast, and in a couple of days after the bruising starts to subside he’ll get Steve to make those gingersnaps he found on Bruce’s pinterest.


	5. Understand the Way We Are

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked: Sorry if you've already said this, I didn't find it in your CPB tags: when Clint panics in the van with Bucky, Steve, and Coulson, on Thanksgiving, after Coulson has to slam on brakes I suppose?, in We Got Time, Know Where To Push Our Luck, how does Coulson manage to calm him down and why does Clint panic? Thank you!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from Motion City Soundtrack's Hello Helicopter.
> 
> Unbeta'd.

Clint had some experience with things crashing around him: cars, circumstances, helicopters, expectations, walls, and one one very memorable occasion, a tree he was still actually in. He even grew to expect it most times. That’s just how The Life of Barton went. 

Just not when Coulson was in charge, which was, well,  _ always _ . 

It’s the holidays, though, and that means holiday traffic. Clint had been worked up since Bucky decided to face his vehicular demons, and while Steve and Bucky’s good natured bantering was great camouflage for hiding his true feelings, things were tense. Being stuck in traffic brought up some pretty terrible associations, the kind where being still and silent were probably the best option. Clint sat on edge in the front seat of Pepper’s company van while Coulson practiced the best of defensive driving. 

Then Coulson slammed on the breaks, let out a vicious “mother _ fucker _ !”, and Clint was five years old all over again, his dad taking road rage out on anyone inside the car. He was thirteen, riding bitch with Barney when neither of them were in any shape to drive. He was fifteen, when the trapeze rope snapped. He was twenty, in brace position as a helo dropped out of the sky. 

*

Coulson sent Steve and Bucky off to go buy out Costco, anything to get them out of the way. His first priority was Clint. They were in Pepper’s van, and Pepper had no reason to have a gym bag with legos and juice boxes and graham crackers and a teddy bear in her company delivery vehicle. 

“Clint? Tell me what you need, sweetheart.”

Clint just clenched his eyes shut and Coulson watched him try to comply.

“Okay, that’s okay, sweet boy. You’re being very good. Need me close?”

Clint shook his head rapidly back and forth. 

“Okay. I’m going to stay over here.”

Clint whispered something, but Coulson only caught the movement of his lips. 

“I’m sorry, sweet boy. I didn’t hear you. Can you say it a little louder?”

Clint shook his head again, signed  _ never mind  _ with his hands.

“I’m not upset with you. Just a little louder, honey.”

“I can’t see your hands,” he said, barely more than a whisper.

Coulson laced his fingers together in front of himself. “Better?”

Clint nodded. “Thank you,” he mouthed.

“I want you to drink some water,” Coulson said, then winced. He hadn’t meant to order Clint, not now. “Could you do that?”

Clint nodded, then shook his head again. “All gone. You could go get me some.”

“I’m not going to leave you like this.”

“I’m fine,” Clint pouted. “I mean, I’m fucked in the head, but I’m not, whatever. A danger to myself or others.” 

“I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to be alone right now.”

“Well it wasn’t a good idea to let Bucky start the van and then puke for an hour, but you let him do it.”

Coulson smiles in spite of himself. “Spoken like a true adolescent.”

“Water?” Clint whined. His behavior was all over the age-range, but Coulson had to admit if he was willing to argue, even a little bit, he was okay to take care of himself.

“I can stay,” he offered, reaching out to pet Clint’s hair away from his forehead. 

Clint flinched without moving, then shuddered. “Sorry. Sorry, sorry.”

“Okay,” Coulson said decisively. “Okay, I’m going to go into the store. I’m going to get you some water. You’re going to get into the backseat, and you’re going to wait for me, and I will be right back. Can you do that for me?”

Clint nodded once.

“That’s good. That’s good, Clint. I need you to look at me for just a minute.”

Clint turned his head toward Coulson but didn’t raise his eyes. 

“Good boy. Now look at me, Clint.”

Clint did. 

“Do you want any peaches?”

Clint shook his head. “Nuh-uh. I mean no. I’m okay. Really.”

“Good boy. Thank you for answering me. I’m so proud of you.”

Clint rolled his eyes, but the blush was rising in his cheeks. 

“I’ll be right back.” Coulson hurried into the store, dodged families as quickly as possible, deployed elbows in a manner not unlike Clint and Steve in the pit, and bought water and the first teddy bear he could find. He miraculously found his way back out to the van in less than five minutes. 

When he opened the door Clint again did that still-flinch thing he’s so good at, but he was present enough to say, “Sorry, Sir. Sorry.”

“You don’t need to apologize, sweet boy,” Coulson said softly. He set the water bottle down at Clint’s feet and then stepped back. “I brought you something.” 

He stayed well out of range until Clint cracked one eye open and looked over at Coulson. “For me?”

Coulson nodded and pushed the bear a little further in Clint’s direction. 

“That’s,” Clint blew out a huff of air from his nose. “That’s the saddest bear I’ve ever seen, Sir.”

Coulson shrugged. “He looked like he could use a home. Go ahead and take him.”

Clint reached out slowly, like he’s still not sure Coulson’s not going to snatch the bear back at the last minute. Coulson’s heart hurt for him. 

“Thanks,” he said once he held the bear secured on his lap. His voice was a little softer, a little higher than normal. Not enough that anyone else would notice, but Coulson did.

“Can I come in there with you?”

“Sure,” Clint said, scooting back.

“How old are you?” Coulson hated to break the spell and risk disrupting the peace, but he had to know.

“No clue,” Clint answered honestly.

“What’s his name?” 

Clint shrugged, petting the bear’s horrible orangey-beige fur back from around his dull button eyes. “He hasn’t told me yet.”

“Well, we have some time.”

“Steve and Bucky will be back -”

“Don’t worry about Steve and Bucky.”

“Kay,” Clint said playing with the bear’s ears. 

Steve and Bucky, well, they probably wouldn’t understand (Bucky might, though Coulson’s convinced Steve would invariably make things much,  _ much  _ worse before he’d come around to anything remotely like understanding) but Clint barely even wanted  _ Coulson  _ knowing about his age issues, let alone his friends. Even had this been the time, it certainly wasn’t the place, and the circumstances could only be worse had Steve and Bucky actually walked in on them mid-scene. 

“How you feeling?” Coulson asked after a few quiet moments.. 

“Silly,” Clint sighed, his fingers digging into the bear for a second before he lifted his hand to press over Phil’s mouth. “Don’t say it.”

“You’re not silly,” Coulson said anyway, muffled from behind Clint’s hand. 

Clint leaned over and smacked a wet kiss on Coulson’s cheek. “And you’re not gonna wail on me because some asshole cut you off in traffic,” he shrugged. “But here we are.”

“Clint,” Coulson started. 

“Come on. Feelings later. The wonder twins will be back any minute, and if we’re not ready for them, Steve might feed Bucky our entire dinner before we pull out of the parking lot.”


	6. Very Strong Bones

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> caligularib asked: Bucky or Steve or Clint (or whoever) reacting to the first poor (or just meh) review of Steve's Docudrama Cross Country Adventures in Ink and Local Cuisine
> 
> The Top Five Episodes of “Tattoo Travelers” That Steve Isn’t Actually In:
> 
> innytoes asked: What was Steve's favourite episode/moment of the IT'S A SERIOUS DOCUMENTARY GDI BUCKY reality show?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from The Front Bottoms' Skeleton.
> 
> Unbeta'd.

Reception is mostly overwhelmingly positive. But one of the lower rated episodes was one Steve held near and dear to his heart: the one with all the sports tattoos. The audience flooded the message boards with “who cares” and “fuck sports” and “never thought you’d be one of those jock assholes, Rogers”. 

Bucky figures he’s in for a bit of a trying time when Steve takes a look at the message boards the day after it airs, mutters, “you’re the jock asshole, asshole,” and then stomps out of the shop. But as the days pass, he doesn’t bring it up again. 

Eventually, after Ruby’s brought by a second helping of meatloaf and mashed potatoes for Bucky and checked in on Steve with a smirk, he smiles politely, all “thank you, ma’am,” and waits for her to round the counter. He drops his club sandwich on the plate in front of him and snaps, “ _ What _ ? You been watching me like I’m gonna sprout wings or something.” 

“Just waiting for the fallout,” Bucky says, and then cringes, because he used to be actually really good at diplomacy. 

“From?” Steve leads.

Bucky snags one of Steve’s fries and Steve smacks his hand. “The bad reviews.”

“We got bad reviews?”

“Uh, yeah? On the sports ep.”

Steve chuckles. “Yeah, I figured that would be a low point. ‘S why I waited til midway through season two to spring it on them.”

“So you’re not upset?”

“Did they say my work was technically lacking? Or that I didn’t understand the source material? Or that they thought I was a _Yankees fan_?” Steve spits.

“Heaven forfend,” Bucky drawls.

“Then what the hell do I care? People like what they like, and they hate it when something can’t fit in their little boxes. Besides, I think it’ll be a cult hit. Just you wait.”

By the time season five starts, with another sports themed ep, episode 2x06 “sportballs” is the fifteenth highest rated episode, and the one with the third most requests for a follow up.

* * *

 

The Top Five Episodes of “Tattoo Travelers” That Steve Isn’t Actually In:

  * The One That Proves Steve Can (And Will) Sleep Anywhere (Steve is technically in it, he just isn’t conscious for it)
  * The One That’s Just Clips of Bucky Being Disappointed By Highly Recommended But Mediocre Local Food (Steve had pneumonia again and filming was delayed.)
  * The One That’s Just Clips of Bucky Being Pleasantly Surprised By Excellent Local Food (and Steve Awkwardly Remembering They’re On Film)  (Steve had bronchitis and a reaction to the meds. Again. And filming was delayed)
  * The One About Recovery Tattoos (The second part of a three-parter where Bucky gets some former soldiers to open up and tell some really heart-wrenching stories about why they’ve decided to get the tat Steve’s going to do for them (pro bono). Also included: Bucky shooting things, sexily.)
  * The One Where Clint Guest Stars And Pets All The Dogs



* * *

Bucky’s favorite episode is the one in season three where they cut together every time Steve gets hit on. 

Steve’s completely oblivious. Until he isn’t. Then he gets a deer in the headlights look on his face, and he’s all stuttery and flustered. 

(Then he gets mad, because Bucky is _right there_ and he’s too busy pretending he’s not laughing to rescue his husband. His _suffering_ husband. His husband who is being _hit on_ and no one just stands there with their knuckle pressed against their lips, Buck. You fool no one.)

Steve’s favorite is the one where Bucky arm wrestles a group (squadron?) of drunk marines. 

And wins. 


	7. The Incident

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked: Cpb Steve and... Clint, 13 handcuffed together.

 

“What do you mean, you can get us out of this?” Steve hissed.

“I can get us out of this,” Clint repeated.

“We are handcuffed together!” Steve pulled sharply on their joined wrists.

“Pfft. Please. These aren’t worthy of being called handcuffs.”

“We’re being robbed!” Peggy reminded him.

“Well sure. Right now. But if I get us out if these-”

“How?” Father Joe muttered.

“Who do you think you’re dealing with, Padre?”

“I have an appointment coming any minute,” Steve said, peeking his head around the counter to check for the robber.

“So let’s do this. ”

“Clint, he has a gun.”

Clint scoffed. “It’s not loaded.”

“You’re sure?”

“Meh, 70-30 I’m right,”

“Oh, great. Odds,” Father Joe said, gripping his rosary beads tighter.

“Give me your shoe.”

“His shoe,” Father Joe dropped his hands to the side, yanking Peggy off balance. “His shoe. I always knew you’d be the death of me, Steven Rogers.”

“Here,” Peggy said, sliding her pump over to Clint.

“Great, aerodynamic.” Clint said. “Get ready to tackle.”


	8. Those Who Let the Rapture Tear Them Away

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked: Hi! I'm kinda new here with a CPB question. Have you ever written any further thoughts about Bucky dancing all up on Tony. I can imagine how (playfully) smug he'd be about that moment, especially if he knew the significant effect it had on Bucky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from Blaqk Audio's Bliss. 
> 
> Thanks to tempore for the look-through!
> 
> This chapter contains porn.

“I fixed your boyfriend’s dick.” Tony sloshes his way into the seat next to Steve. It’s his birthday, and ToJu is spending the weekend with Pepper’s mom. Tony seems to have forgotten that fatherhood has significantly decreased his tolerance. Clint and Bucky are taking advantage of this fact, though Bucky, last time Steve checked, was doing an awful lot of sloshing around himself. 

“Husband,” Steve corrects automatically. “And his dick works just fine.”

“Sure,  _ now _ . Thanks to me.”

“I am either way too drunk or nowhere near drunk enough for this conversation.”

“Getcher boy over here, then. Bucky!” Tony shouts. “ _ Bucky _ ! Come here! Tell Steve how I fixed your dick! And bring us some shots!”

“You didn’t fix it, you just woke it back up.” Bucky aims a kiss for Steve’s forehead, but he must be really drunk, because he hits his eye, then giggles. 

“Wait, he’s serious?” Steve asks, rubbing his eye and poking Bucky in the stomach.

“He’s a really good dancer,” Bucky shrugs. He forgets to put his shoulders back down until  Steve pushes them back into place. “Thanks, babe. That was really uncomfortable.”

“You are so drunk.”

Bucky nods. “So, so drunk.”

“I don’t know. I’ve seen Tony dance,” Steve considers.

“It loses something if you’re not experiencing it firsthand,” Tony says. At least, that’s what Steve thinks Tony says. He’s busy dragging Steve out onto the dance floor, downing a drink, and winking at Pepper and Bruce.

Afterward, Steve admits, Tony is a very good dancer, and if there was any awakening that needed to happen (there’s  _ not _ , thank you very much, but if there  _ was _ ) this dance would have probably taken care of it. 

Bucky apparently agrees, because he kicks Clint and Coulson out of the club’s bathroom and drags Steve in. Clint’s cries of “We weren’t done yet, asshole!” disappear into the bass of the club as the door shuts behind them, and Steve’s backed against the wall, Bucky crowding into him.

“Bucky, you are so drunk,” Steve laughs as Bucky sucks at his neck. 

“Not that drunk.”

“You’re mauling me in a public bathroom,” Steve pushes his hips against Bucky’s anyway.

Bucky stills and pulls back enough to ask, “Want me to stop?”

“Oh,  _ hell  _ no. Explanation would be good.”

“You. You were so hot out there,” Bucky says, his hands under Steve’s ass, hefting him up.

“So, so drunk,” Steve says, wrapping his legs around Bucky’s waist. “Tony’s the dancer, I just stood there.” 

“Bullshit,” Bucky says. He bites down at the juncture of Steve’s neck and shoulder just to feel how Steve shudders against him. “When you forget yourself, when the music’s just right, Stevie, god, you can dance. The way you move, it’s, it’s like sex out there.”

“Shut up,” Steve whines, pulling Bucky’s hair to get his face back where he can kiss him. He keeps one hand in Bucky’s hair and the other scrabbles at his shirt, peeling it up to bunch under his soft pecs. He’s still pushing his hips against Bucky’s stomach, but he’s arching his back away from the wall. He’s clinging to Bucky’s shoulders but wiggling to put his feet back down on the ground.

Bucky lets him down, holds him steady until he gets his legs under him and then presses with one big hand in the middle of Steve’s thin chest. “Stay.”

Steve takes a breath to argue and Bucky cuts him off. “Steve. I said  _ stay _ .”

Steve nods, his eyes wide.

“You gonna stay still for me?”

Steve nods again, and Bucky drops to his knees. He all but rips the button off Steve’s jeans in his hurry to get them down his thighs. Never before has he been so grateful Steve can’t find pants that fit properly. He’s already mouthing at Steve’s dick before he even gets the jeans fully out of the way, and Steve’s standing above him, tugging at his hair and chanting his name like he can’t help it. 

As soon as Steve’s skin is bared in front of him, Bucky leans in, sucking Steve all the way down in one quick move.

Steve’s head thunks back against the wall and he gasps something that might be Bucky’s name. Bucky sucks again, and It’s only Bucky’s hand still pressing against his chest that keeps him from doubling over. 

Bucky pulls off enough to mumble, “careful.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Steve mutters and shifts his hips in tiny little thrusts. 

Bucky reaches his other hand down, squeezes himself through his jeans. There isn’t room for him to shove his hand down his pants, even if he wanted to take the time to unbutton them, but he’s not really all that concerned at the moment. 

Steve’s thrusts pick up speed and Bucky forces himself to pull back. “Hey,” he says, putting all the command he can muster into his voice. “I told you to stay. Still.”

“I’m staying, I’m staying,” Steve says. 

“ Still ,” Bucky demands.

“ _ Fuck _ , Bucky,” Steve whispers. “I can’t, come on, I’m gonna,  _ come on _ ,” Steve tugs at his hair again. 

Bucky can’t help it, doesn’t feel like teasing anymore, and let’s Steve have his way. He grins and redoubles his efforts. He moves his hand off Steve’s chest and grabs his ass, squeezing almost hard enough to bruise. 

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Steve says, his shoulders pressed into the wall as he gets closer to coming. 

Bucky works one finger back into Steve’s hole, presses a little just for the pressure, and Steve shouts as he comes. 

“Holy  _ fuck _ ,” he pants.

“Uh huh,” Bucky says, his forehead pressed against Steve’s twitching stomach. 

“You need help?” Steve asks, his hand waving in an uncoordinated motion toward where Bucky’s still on his knees in front of him. 

Bucky shakes his head. 

“Kay,” he says, then takes a deep breath. “By the way, Tony never finds out about this. Agreed?”

“Agreed.”


	9. From Bootcamp to Battle Cry

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **minor original character death (natural causes - he's an old man) in this chapter**
> 
> Title from Carbon Leaf's The War Was in Color

 

While they’re on the road, and Bucky’s wandering while Steve does his thing, he ends up with the group of old men honest to god sitting on rocking chairs outside an actual general store. It’s an interesting looking place, all old country charm, like a Cracker Barrel without the implied racism. It’s the kind of aesthetic Bucky secretly likes, and Steve not-so-secretly hates, so Bucky’s hoping he can find something he loves to torture Steve with. 

“You serve, son?” one of the guys asks him as he’s making his way onto the porch, though it’s not so much a question. 

“Yessir,” Bucky replies cautiously. He knows he doesn’t look at all like a soldier anymore, with the mumbledy-odd extra pounds and the ink and the chains that jangle off his skinny jeans he only sort of fits into. He’s gotten the “disgrace to the uniform” look more than once, though according to Steve, Clint, Coulson, and everyone else they know, he still moves like a soldier enough that few have said it to his face. The ones who have found out pretty damn quickly that Bucky’s still fast as hell and there’s nothing at all disgraceful in the weight behind his punches. “Army. One-Oh-Seventh.”

“Pull up a chair, then,” another old man, more wrinkle than face, says. “Give Mike someone new to tell about Omaha Beach.”

Bucky sits to the chorus of old man groans, “Not that old nonsense again,” and “Mike you were  _ twelve years old _ on D Day.”

“Yessir,” Bucky says, because his mama didn’t raise him to turn down that kind of invitation. 

“Psh, we’re not in anymore. Name’s Rob.”

“No one ever called Rob sir, anyway. His dumb ass got busted down to PFC more times than I can count,” Mike said. “Lemonade or beer, son?”

Bucky stays with them well into the evening, laughing it up at another one of Mike’s absolutely untrue stories until Steve comes around the corner, looking relieved when he finally sees Bucky. 

“Bout time your fella came round,” Rob says. “”He the one that did all that ink?”

“Yeah, this is the guy that started it all with this one here,” Bucky rolls his sleeve up a little to show off he first tat Steve ever gave him. He beams proudly, and pulls Steve close for a quick kiss on the cheek.

Steve stiffens, just for a moment, but relaxes once Bucky lets him go and pushes him toward a stool made from an old washtub. It’s just that kind of place.

“Got mine started here,” Mike says, showing off a blurred, faded, topless girl on his forearm, the kind that was all but mandatory for soldiers of a certain age. “Made my mama cry something fierce, but she couldn’t yell at me, cause at least I wasn’t dead. Made me wear long sleeves in her house til the day she died, though.”

And that pulls Steve into the conversation, gets him talking about sailor tattoos with the men. They offer him a drink and carry on into the evening.

After the sun’s gone for good and Rob’s granddaughter closes the store and takes him home, Bucky and Steve and the other three guys hit up the diner for meatloaf specials and more shit-talking. They stay in town three extra days, and the guys get an entire episode dedicated to them and their pinup girl tattoos and war stories. 

* * *

“You want this tattooed?” Steve asks, pressing his fingers under his glasses to rub his eyes. 

Bucky stretches to put the kettle on the top shelf of the kitchenette cabinet in the RV. “Not today, but when this round of the trip is over, yeah. Back at the shop. Before Thanksgiving.” 

“Sure. But when did you start drinking tea?”

Bucky leans back against the counter. “I don’t drink tea unless I’m sick. Or you’re sick.” He waits a beat. “Actually I drink a lot of tea, now that I think of it.”

Steve swats Bucky on the arm. “Seriously, it’s your body, and I’ll tattoo just about anything you ask for. I figure everyone’s got their reasons. But, legally speaking, everything of yours is technically half mine, so can I get the story?”

“It was Mike’s.” Bucky says softly. 

“Mike?” Steve blinks at him a couple times. “Wait. Mike who was not at Omaha Beach, Mike?”

Bucky nods. “He left it to me. Apparently he passed on a couple weeks ago.”

“Oh, Buck. I’m sorry.” Steve pushes into his space, hugging him hard. 

Bucky shrugs. “It happens. He was eighty-five years old. Lived a good life if even half of his stories were true.”

Steve nods. “So where do you want the tat?”

“Dunno. Probably my calf.”

“Cool. Any reason?”

Bucky shrugs. “‘S the only place I got left without a theme.”


	10. An Ache in My Heart and a Thorn in My Side

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> CPBVerse fights

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from Alkaline Trio, Piss and Vinegar

  * The first fight Steve ever got into was in the ER. 
  * He was six 
  * He was there because he couldn’t breathe (again) and Donnie Mallillo was there for the chicken pox. 
  * Donnie’s ma and Steve’s ma were trying to get an update from the night nurse on how much longer it might be. 
  * Donnie was picking on Steve (again) because he didn’t have a dad. 
  * Steve did _too_ have a dad
  * He was a _soldier_ and he died in a war and he was  _brave_ and _strong_ and a _good man_
  * Donnie kept saying no he wasn’t and so Steve socked him right in the nose. 
  * Steve was supposed to be sleeping but he heard Donnie’s ma tell one of the nurses that Mrs Rogers had an awful nice story to tell about her boy.
  * Steve was supposed to be sleeping but he heard his ma tell one of the other nurses that Donnie deserved it.
  * Steve’s ma is the bestest, prettiest, most great ma in the universe.



 

  * The first fight Bucky ever got into was with some creepy little eighth grader who tried to say shit about his sister.



 

  * The first fight Clint got into that wasn’t with Barney was with a guy who thought he was a hooker when he wasn’t
  * The guy saw Clint a few months later when he _was_ hooking, and that was the second fight Clint got into.



 

  * The first fight Coulson got into Coulson was incredibly drunk and got his ass handed to him.
  * That’s the same night he met Nick.
  * Nick didn’t get involved with the fight, but did help Coulson up after and taught him how to fight once he sobered up. 
  * Coulson’s been in more back alley bar fights than Steve, Bucky, and Clint combined.



 

  * Maria used to teach a self defense class, and does again after she quits the force, but she’s never had to do more than posture and threaten in her day to day life.



 

  * Sam’s never been in an actual fist fight. 
  * Peggy has. 
  * Natasha was there.
  * So was Pepper.



 

  * Pepper’s story of the fight is one of Bruce’s bulletproof go-to stories when he’s _ahem_ , alone, and time is, _ahem_ , of the essence. 
  * He’s not proud of how quickly it works.
  * Tony is.
  * Pepper's hot.




	11. All Along You Knew My Story

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> charlottefever asked: 22. A book infested with ghosts, and Clint, of course.   
> innytoes asked: Steve/Bucky and stripper AU, because I am trash.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from Gaslight Anthem, Old Haunts
> 
> unbeta'd.

“Nope.” Clint grabs Steve by the hand and yanks, hard.

“Clint!” Steve squawks. “This is the book he wants. Also, ow.”

“ _ Nope _ .” Clint yanks again, which of course only makes Steve plant his feet more firmly. 

“I’ve been looking for it for  _ weeks _ , his birthday is  _ tomorrow _ , this is  _ the  _ gift, the  _ only  _ gift, and I’m going to get it. First edition, perfect condition, look at these illustrations!”

“Steve. No.”  Clint would laugh if this was funny, but they have to  _ go _ .  _ Now _ . “That book is not coming near you, or Bucky, or me, or anyone else we’ve ever met.” 

Steve looks halfway near to going limp and dropping next to the shelves, and Clint is not above picking him up and whisking him right the fuck out of the store. He’s gotten good at handling balls-o-toddler, since ToJu has inherited all three of his parents’ stubborn streaks.

“Give me one good reas- is this a ghost thing?”

Clint nods. 

“Oh for cryin out loud,” Steve huffs, but he steps away from the shelves. “Fine. But you’re explaining why I don’t have a birthday gift for my husband for the fourth year in a row.”

“Four years?”

“Bucky’s hard to buy for! He doesn’t collect anything. He already has all the stuff he wants, and I can’t buy him, like, pants. I’m not his grandmother.”

“Dude, just do what I do for Coulson. Give him a show.”

“I guess Tony probably owns a gallery. Or has an in with one. That doesn’t give me a lot of time to pull anything together.”

“No, not a - Well, sure, I mean, you guys are both weirdo artsy types. He’d probably dig it. But I meant, you know. A sexy show.” Clint waggles his eyebrows and does a thing with his hips Steve remembers from college. 

“A sexy show?”

“Like a striptease.”

And Steve, well, it’s not like he has any better ideas. 

So the big day comes, and there’s a pot luck for all their friends to come to. ToJu and Fabi teamed up and made a cake. Bruce supervised, so it was actually edible, though Steve doesn’t know why everyone was so dramatic about it. Sure it was good, but it wasn’t rub-your-tummy-and-make-mmmm-noises good.

Bucky rolls his eyes and cuffs Steve on the back of the head. Then he lets ToJu blow out his candles. Natasha wrinkles her nose and whispers in Clint’s ear, “baby spittle”, but ToJu very gently and very methodically blows each candle out one by one. 

After everyone goes home, Steve sits Bucky down in the chair and backs up a few feet and … stands there. 

“Oh, right,” he turns on some music, he doesn’t even know what it is, something with bass. Clint picked it. And then he … stands there some more. 

Bucky blinks.

Steve tugs at the hem of his t-shirt. “I uh. Oh, yeah. Happy birthday.”

“You gonna put on a little show for me, babe?” Bucky smirks at him.

Steve squares his shoulders and takes his shirt off over his head. He forgot to take off his glasses first and he gets all tangled up for a minute. 

“Maybe shoulda gone with a button up.”

“Fuck off,” Steve says. He tries to slide his shoe off, but loses his balance halfway through and has to kind of hop a little to the side two or three times. 

Bucky can’t hold it in any more, and he just bursts out laughing. 

“Alright, fine. You know what,” Steve starts, but Bucky’s laughing and it’s kind of funny. Bucky pulls him in by the belt loop. 

“Come here, come here,” he says, and settles Steve on his lap, back to front. He arranges Steve’s legs across his own. “Forget stripping,” he says, nibbling along Steve’s jawline. “That’s not utilizing your skill set.” 

He puts one big hand on Steve’s hip, the other across his chest. “The key is knowing where your talents lie, babe,” he bites down on Steve’s shoulder. “You need to be up close and personal.”

“Y-yeah?” Steve stuttered. 

“Hmm, yeah,” Bucky said, undulating a little, making Steve grind down against him. 

“But this is supposed to be your present.”

“Mm-hmm,” Bucky breathed. “And happy birthday to me.”


	12. Your Hand's Wet With Sweat and Your Head Needs a Rest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> caligularib asked: Distract you? Challenge accepted. What kind of emotional Chernobyl happened the first time Coulson proposed? And how did he ever think it would be a good idea to propose again?
> 
> tora42 asked: What about Clint's POV of the whole marriage proposal debacle?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from Styx, Fooling Yourself
> 
> Unbeta'd.

The first time Coulson proposed, he’d planned it to the minute. He wanted to do it traditionally, because he felt like, sure, nothing else in their lives went by the book, but this was a proposal. The proposal. Hopefully, the only one Phil would ever perform and the only one Clint would ever accept. It was something that should be done a certain way, no matter how unconventional everything else about them may be.

A nice dinner, tickets to a show, both of them dressed up - suits, if Clint felt like pants.

Dinner was perfect, the weather was perfect, his boy was perfect. Phil took them for a short moonlight stroll and carriage ride.

And his plan, perfectly executed to that point, started to slide a little.

Clint spent the carriage ride up front grilling the driver about his horses - that was the night Coulson found out about Clint’s love of horses and his time trick riding.

“You’re just full of surprises, sweet boy,” Phil said.

Once they pulled over Phil tipped the man generously and stood aside while Clint communed with the horses a little more, making plans to come see them, promising them all the sugar cubes he could fit in his pocket, insisting the one with the braided mane really, really wanted purple ribbons.

Then he steered Clint to a bench overlooking the water, dropped to one knee and started, “Clint, this last year with you has been - “

and that was as far as he got before Clint … well.

Clint kind of freaked out a little.

Well.

A lot.

“No. No no no. Nope, Sir, Phil, no. No. _No_. Get up,” he shoved his hands into Phil’s armpits and pulled, tugging him to his feet. “Up up, _get up_ , you’re not doing this, you’re not doing this to me, please, please don’t.”

Phil kept repeating Clint’s name, over and over, until finally he grabbed his face between his hands and shouted, “Clint! Drop!.” And Clint sank like a stone.

Phil called a cab because Clint wouldn’t stop shaking, and got him home and settled with some warm, hot tea with honey.

The sight of the honey made Clint bite his lip so hard Phil was afraid he’d see blood soon.

“Clint,” he said sharply, and pressed his thumb to Clint’s lip, pulling it gently from between his teeth. Clint didn’t try to suck it or bite it, and Coulson sat heavily in the chair across from him.

“Everything is fine, sweet boy. We’re going to talk, and we’re going to get to the bottom of this, and nothing you say tonight is going to make me love you any less.”

Clint swallowed thickly and nodded.

Coulson took a deep breath and then reached out for Clint’s hand.

“Sorry, Sir,” Clint whispered.

“Don’t be sorry, sweet boy.”

“I ruined your night. You planned everything so nice and there were horses, and you didn’t even know about the horses.” Clint’s breath hitched. “Me and horses, I mean. I assume you knew the carriage would have horses.”

Coulson let out a watery laugh. "I assumed."

“And I ruined it.”

“It’s not ruined.”

“Pretty sure in your plan you had us having sex right now.”

And well, his boy’s not wrong.  He waited for Clint to risk looking up at him through his eyelashes and shrugged. “Can you tell me,” he started, but Clint interrupted him with a quick, “can’t,” addressed to the floor.

“Twenty questions?” Phil asked, falling back on and old trick. “Is it too fast for you?”

“No.”

“Is it too much of a commitment?”

“No.”

“But you do want to be with me?”

“Yes.”  

And so on. The game goes on long past twenty questions, until Phil’s just asking the same thing using different words until Clint finally says, “I don’t. Phil, Sir, I don’t, peaches, okay?”

Phil blinks. “Okay, Clint,” because what else can he say?

“Tomorrow. Please? We’ll talk more tomorrow.”

*

Clint was mostly trying to keep breathing and not pass out and not run away and not start crying and he could probably get to Mathilde the Horse before Coulson could catch up to him.

He shut his eyes tight, but the flash of light glinting off the ring was burned into his brain, shrieking at him.

If light could shriek.

Which apparently, it could.

It was all Clint could hear, aware that he was still talking, but not knowing what he was saying until Coulson’s voice shut out all the other noise, “Clint! Drop!”

And Clint did.

When he finally climbed into bed, he lay next to Coulson, pretending to sleep until Phil started to snore.

He spent the night trying to convince himself that Coulson likes him as his _sub_ , that he’s not unhappy, that he doesn’t want something more traditional (normal) safe (normal) regular average ( _normal)_ , that he still wants to give Clint what he wants (needs), that he’s not too loud, too demanding, too difficult, too annoying, too _much_.

Coulson promised he wouldn’t love him any _less_ . He didn’t say anything about not loving him _differently_.

Around four in the morning, Clint made up his mind. He lived without it before, he can do it again. He’ll miss it, but it couldn’t last forever. Nothing does.

He made sure for the next few days that he was just a guy. Just a regular dude. An average Joe. A fine gentleman. A typical bloke.

A regular, boring, vanilla, pants-wearing, normal, grown-up adult kinda man.

He did not, for example, greet Coulson with breakfast wearing nothing but a strategically placed purple bow.

He did not, for example, wear his footie pajamas to bed the next night.

He did not, for example, build a fort out of the sofa cushions and shoot foam-tipped darts at Coulson while he finished his work on his laptop.

He did not even think about, for example, taking a bath with all his toys and asking Coulson to wash his hair, or wondering what he'd do if Clint decided to wear cat ears and fairy wings.

He did not ask for chocolate chip pancakes for breakfast on Saturday morning.

They had eggs and turkey bacon and black coffee. Because they are adults.

And in return, Coulson didn’t make him finish ~~twenty~~ seventy-eight questions. Probably because he was tired, not because it didn’t matter anymore. Because Clint was a grown up, responsible, normal partner, and not a child who needed to be prodded into communicating. And he was a grown up responsible normal partner who knew better than to ask questions he didn't want answered.

Maybe Coulson looked at him longer than usual, and maybe he started to ask those questions, but Clint was prepared for that. He redirected him. Maybe a little too easily.

They watch the pet intern’s little indie band play, and Clint just nodded politely and reached out to shake Leo’s hand. There was no way Coulson could interpret that as anything other than rational and adult. Even if Leo checked over his shoulder for Clint throughout the night. The band was good, even though there was too much tiny guitar thing and not enough drums. Clint couldn’t remember the name of the tiny guitar thing, though, so when Coulson asked if he liked them, Clint just smiled.

He didn’t even complain when Coulson didn’t pin his wrists when they had slow, sleepy, boring vanilla sex. He certainly didn’t pout about it all day on Sunday. He just ~~stomped~~ walked calmly to the range to practice. For hours.  

He’d have probably been able to carry on like that forever.

Forever suddenly seemed like a really, really long time.

When he showed up at Coulson’s office to do some filing, he knocked on the office door frame - just a quick one-two-three, no pattern, no limerick, no nothing but “I’m ready, set me at it,” Coulson looked up and.

Clint’s not sure there’s a word for the sheer horror he saw on Coulson’s face.

Coulson cleared his throat. “Are those - Are you wearing _khakis_ ? And a _polo shirt_?”

Clint looks down at his beige legs. “Um. Yes?”

Coulson shut his computer off. “Leo? Close down for me. We need to go.”

“What? Coulson, what? It’s two-fifteen! On a Wednesday! We need to finish these reports! We need-” Clint shut his mouth with a snap off Phil’s look.

“Not. A. Word.”

Once home, Phil all but threw Clint into the bedroom with a harsh, “Strip. Kneel. Stay.” Phil turned on his heel and walked out the door. “Oh, and Clint,” he said, not bothering to turn around, “There is no getting out of it this time.”

*

“Good boy,” Phil said when he walked back into the room half an hour later. Clint was naked, kneeling, still as a picture. “My sweet, pretty boy.”

Phil watched as Clint visibly settled, seeming more at home in his own skin than he had in a week. He sat on the bed, still fully dressed in his suit, and beckoned Clint toward him.

"Come here, Clint."

Clint crawled over, slow and graceful like a panther, putting on a show, until he knelt between Phil’s legs. Phil stroked his hand over Clint’s head and down his neck. They stayed like that for a few long moments until Phil pulled back.

"Where did you even find a polo shirt?"

Clint shrugged. "Had it from the call center job I had before we met."

"Ah," Coulson said, tugging Clint's hair so that he had to look at him. 

Clint whined low in his throat.

“Sweet boy,” Phil sighed. “What am I going to do with you?”

“Anything you want,” Clint said, but his smirk looked uncomfortable, forced.

“Clint. You know needs can change over time,” Phil said. Clint flinched, so Phil hurried on, “and that’s okay, that’s to be expected.”

“But I don’t want to,” Clint said, looking lost and small.

“Tell me what you want.”

“I just. I wanna be your boy, Sir.”

“You are.”

“I’m not! You don’t - and needs change - and, and, and you had a ring!”

“And that’s bad because?”

“I just, let me be good, Sir? Please?” Clint nudges his way closer, runs his hands up Phil’s ankles. “I can, I promise. You know I can.”

“Of course you can, Clint. You always are.”

"Then why would you want to change it?" Clint whines again and wiggles impossibly closer, nosing around on Phil’s zipper. “I just wanna be your boy, Sir,” Clint said again.

“You are, Clint. Nothing will ever, ever stop that, sweet boy. Not your collar, not a ring, not terrible fashion choices, not even a shirt with sleeves on it still. Now, I don’t believe I gave you permission for that, did I?”

Clint sat back quickly.

“Good boy.” 

*

He thought it might be a good idea to try again because he thought he had a better idea of how Clint’s brain worked. This time, it was nothing special, nothing fancy, nothing he even planned on doing. He just looked over at Clint, standing in the kitchen pouring coffee in a halter top and cut off shorts and he said, “Marry me.”

“What?”

“Marry me.”

Clint laughed. Actually laughed. “No. Sir, no, what the, _no_ , we talked about this.”

But at least it didn’t end in khakis.

Steve even tried to explain it to Coulson, in his way, at one of Stark's bizarre theme-nights. He dragged him by the hand to the DJ booth while Bucky and Clint played some kind of freakishly accurate game of horse with the dartboard and Natasha and Sam kept score? Or judged? Or something? But Steve kept playing bits of songs for him and saying, “Right, so it’s like the first verse of Fooling Yourself, and then the second verse of this song here, maybe the middle part of, no actually, that song’s about people who aren’t happy, but the chorus of this one, if it was about a guy and not, you know, his dog, _obviously_ , and then first three lines of the last verse of …”

And really, Coulson was too drunk to follow musical music with Steve.

When he told Bucky that he thinks Clint thinks it’d be a step backward, that was as close as he’s ever come to really getting it himself.

Every couple of years, he thinks about trying again, but he usually just puts Clint down on his knees and gives it a few hours and the urge passes. What they’ve got, it works for them.


	13. The Show That Never Ends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> meistyguard said: When Steve was working on the mural at Tony’s cabin. (also - did he ever finish it, and if so, is it still there?)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from Emerson Lake and Palmer, Karn Evil 9, 1st Impression, Part 2
> 
> Unbeta'd

****It’s still a work in progress, though the progress varies from section to section. Some parts are fully fleshed-out- bright, circus colors, overlaid with a yellowed, aged patina.

Some parts are inked, some parts are still very faint pencil lines, some parts are only visible from certain angles and if you know how to look.

Clint helps, sometimes, by giving Steve notes. 

“ _p_ _ut a smallish tent here_ ” or “ _big sign_ ” and a sketch of a shaky rectangle-ish shape.

“ _MORE TIGERS STEVE_ ” is in about six places. “ _Only three elephants, this isn’t Ringling_ ”

“ _Cotton Candy_ ” “ _More fairy lights_ ” “ _Can you make the lights blink?_ ” " _Where's the **bathrooms** , Steve_?"

Clint can’t draw, but he gives great instructions.

(The best one is _"FUNNEL CAKE AND CORN DOGS! STEVE I AM DISAPPOINTED IN YOU"_ that Bucky actually wrote in a shockingly close approximation of Clint's handwriting. He just shrugs when Steve asks him about his hidden talents. "For crying out loud, Bucky, what else don't I know about you?")

“ _THE AMAZING HAWKEYE_ ” is written over a stick figure with a bow and arrow and another stick figure that Steve somehow just knows is Stick-Coulson. Steve asks Clint about it the morning it appears, and Clint grins, opens his mouth to speak and then grimaces, shakes his head, and Steve doesn’t see him or Coulson for the rest of the day.

Steve mostly works on it when Bucky and Clint are jock-bonding, throwing a football (or each other) around in the lake or tearing down the dock in a way Pepper has sternly informed them will _not_ be happening any more once ToJu starts coming on vacations with them.

Tony’s wanted to paint over it a few times. He doesn’t want to get rid of it, not really. He wants to redo the kitchen because he read about the kind of vacuum that hooks into the central heating/air system. “It would be great, Bruce. We have a _baby_ to think of!” ( _Won’t someone please think of the_ **_children_ ** is Tony’s newest go-to argument.)

Bruce will not let him destroy it, because somehow looking at the chaotic, vintage-nightmare-steampunk-circus-amusement-park-in-surrealist-hell scene is the best way to calm himself. It’s like meditation on steroids - which he’s tried to explain to Tony is kind of the exact opposite of how meditation works, but Tony’s … Tony. 

ToJu - now that he can see farther than a foot and a half in front of his own nose - loves staring at it too. Bruce and ToJu have fallen asleep in front of it more than once.


	14. They're All Good Hearted With Good Intentions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked: Okay but what if Bucky is babysitting the kids and then their parents come pick them up and Steve finds a blanket fort in the living room when he comes home because Bucky hasn't cleaned it up yet?
> 
> Anonymous asked: cpb and Steve babysitting toju

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lyrics from 500 Miles to Memphis, All My Friends Are Crazy

 

 

The first summer they’re back from filming, Steve found The List when they were unpacking - he’d thought he had gotten rid of it, honestly, and he didn’t even think of it (much) anymore. But for some reason he can’t bring himself to throw it out. 

The one he finds is actually the fourth version of The List he’s had. 

The original List was the page from  _ Glamour _ \- torn out of a waiting room copy at the doctor’s. He had felt really guilty for being  _ that guy _ , ripping things out of communal property, but considering the doctor was a breathing specialist and the majority of the patients were well beyond their prime dating years, he only felt bad for a little while. 

(He spent Wednesdays that summer - except when he caught the  _ flu _ . In  _ June _ . Really. - reading to older folks at the retirement home to make up for it.)

Then he stumbled across another list in another magazine, when his Ma was in the hospital before she passed. He copied it over into the back of his sketchbook, and, since he didn’t have anything else to do in the long hours of the night, listening to the machines beep and the nurses gossip, he practiced calligraphy by copying those dating tips over and over and over. 

He’d ripped the third version up after a disastrous two week flirtation with what turned out to be a closeted married man. Even Peggy doesn’t know about that one. 

This version of the list was something he doodled up without even consciously realizing it in the weeks after he met Bucky.

He’s afraid for a moment that Bucky found it, that he’s making fun of him (date idea 5 - blanket forts! stupid, stupid,  _ stupid _ .) until Bucky comes out of the bathroom, drying his hands and smiling softly at Steve and then the mess behind him. 

“Fabi and I were pirates. That’s our ship. ToJu was the bad guy.” Bucky points to ToJu’s toddler activity center … playmobile … thing. "We fought him off with weaponized socks. Luckily, you've been around, so there were plenty _just laying around_ anywhere for us to use." 

“ToJu - little, just-turned-one ToJu - was a pirate?”

“No, Tio Thefe,” Bucky says slowly, in his dead-on imitation of Fabiana's adorable missing-tooth lisp. “ToJu was  _ the bad guy _ . We were the pirates.”

“Pirates aren’t bad guys?”

“Nope,” Bucky kisses him on the cheek as he walks by. “Help me fold these back up, we’ll go get dinner.”

 

* * *

 


	15. Birthday Party, Cheesecake, Jelly Bean, Boom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It isn't scripted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from REM, It's the End of the World As We Know It
> 
> unbeta'd
> 
> There is a very brief mention of disordered eating in this chapter.

It isn’t scripted. 

After season one was such a hit, the fans clamored for more all over the message boards during their hiatus. Steve broke up some of the boredom with five minute shorts, answering fan questions or live streaming his drawings, narrating his process. Bucky proposed airing the finale live.

"Like a clip show, but reminiscences."

Antoine nodded. 

"Here at the shop, or maybe at Ruby's Diner."

Antoine nodded again. He loved the light in Ruby's diner. And the pie.

"And since the shorts are such a hit, I was thinking we could stream it live."

“No,” Antoine said, almost before the words had left Bucky’s mouth. 

“Why not?” Bucky asked.

“Because _ Steve Rogers _ , that’s why not,” Antoine said. 

Bucky conceded he had a point, but, “Steve goes off script even when we’ve got time to edit. How many episodes have we revised or reversed or even flat out made up on the fly?”

“Too many.”

“Hey, you’re the one who gave him a contract that stipulated complete creative control.”

“No, your fancy-ass four hundred dollar an hour lawyer made that demand.”

“Yeah. Coulson’s the best,” Bucky smiled. “Besides,” he affected his slimiest media-guy voice, “The kids  _ love  _ it. It really speaks to the millennial demographic that’s so fickle and hard to pin down.”

Antoine ran it up the corporate flagpole, and apparently, yes, the kids  _ did  _ love it. Which meant the accountants loved it. So seasons two through six premiered and ended with live episodes. 

So in the season six finale, one hundred fifty episodes in, just after Antoine called,”and...  _ go _ ”  Steve leaned back in the diner booth across from Bucky and said, “I think I’m done.” 

Bucky rolled with it, because that was his part to play in this whole thing. Executive producer and straight man. “You sure? You’ve barely touched your grilled cheese.”

It wasn’t exactly uncommon for Steve to pick at his meal, but he usually at least tried to finish more than that, especially when they were being filmed. He’d gotten wind of some pro-ana blogs using him for thinspiration a while back and went a little off his rocker shooting them down.

“No, not that,” Steve took a big, pointed bite, strings of melted cheese stretching out from the sandwich. “I think I’m done with the show,” he said, mouth still full. 

Bucky shot a glance at the camera, then at Antoine in the background gesturing wildly for Bucky to. Well, he wasn’t fluent in semaphore, but he’s pretty sure Toine wanted him to shut Steve up, like,  _ yesterday _ . 

Bucky shrugged, because, hello. Has Antoine met Steve? Trying to shut him up would only make this worse. 

“Babe? You uh. You wanna maybe finish that bite and talk about your favorite shop this last season?” He tried to ignore the camera.

Steve looked off into the distance for a minute, clearly pretending to think about it. “Nope. I mean, I will, in a minute, but first. I just. How many shows are even any good after the sixth season? Let’s go out on top. I think. Yeah. I think I’m done. I miss home. I miss our friends. I miss Mrs O’Leary’s smelly dog. I miss our shop. I miss fucking you in a bed that’s bigger than a couch.”

“Airing live, ladies and gentlemen, to my mother and baby sister and everyone else we’ve ever met,” Bucky muttered. 

“We’ve been married for seven years, Buck. Pretty sure the cat’s out of that bag. But I’m sorry,” Steve looks straight into the camera, defiantly ignoring the way Antoine is crouched on the ground, head in hands, his clipboard and headset abandoned next to him. “For the record, he does me most of  _ -mmph _ !”

Bucky dove across the table, dislodging several saucers and a cameraman in his attempt to smother the words coming out of Steve’s mouth. 

“You done?” He asked, physically nodding Steve’s head up and down for him. 

“Mmmf.”

Bucky leans a little farther over the table to kiss Steve on the nose the way he hates. “Okay then,” he says, settling back down. “So this is it?”

“This is it.”

“Huh. Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Yeah. Let’s go home.”

Steve beams at him. 

“Uh, guys?” Antoine calls from his place on the floor. “Could you, I don’t know, stop talking about your sex life and maybe finish the episode?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Steve knows all the words to It's the End of the World As We Know It. He sings it at karaoke for money.


	16. If Them Orange Groves Don’t Freeze

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from Tom Petty, Southern Accents
> 
> Unbeta'd

They made the mistake of traveling through the Southeastern US during one of the rainiest Springs on record. Everything is hot and steamy and the smell of green and wet invades the RV, clinging onto every surface.

Bucky paces in the small space when he's not wedging himself into corners or burying himself in the blankets, then throwing them across the space because they’re too hot, too damp, the whole fucking box on wheels is too cave - like.

Steve tells the driver to stop, they’ll get a hotel for as long as it takes to dry up, but Bucky grits his teeth and manages to take a deep enough breath to tell them to just keep driving.

“Buck, no, let’s just stop somewhere-”

“No. Drive. ”

“Bucky, we can just wait this out.”

And Bucky hates this, hates it, doesn’t want to say it out loud, not to anyone, not to  _ Steve _ , but, “if we stop now I’ll never get back in the transport.”

“It’s not a transport vehicle, Bucky. It’s just our RV,” Steve says softly. "It's been our home for the last two months. You love it here, you're safe here."

“Fuck you, Steve, you think I don’t know that? You think I don’t know where I am? That this fucking tin can is a cave and that any second now the driver’s going to turn on us and slit your throat in front of me?”

“Bucky - “

“Shut up, Steve! Shut up, shut up, shut -” they hit a pothole and he can’t feel his left arm and he can’t breathe and when he can, Steve’s rubbing his back and telling him they’ll be home in time for Toju’s first day of kindergarten, and how pissed Tony is going to be when Fabi picks him to help her with her 3rd grade science fair project.


	17. Where Hurricanes Hardly Ever Happen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked: idk cpb stuck inside during a hurricane
> 
> You probably meant Old Man Verse, in Miami. I did not write that.

 

“Clint?”

“Yeah, Bucky?”

“Whatcha doing on the roof?”

“Inspecting.”

“Inspecting what?”

“ _ The roof _ .”

“Why?”

“There’s a hurricane a-comin’.”

Bucky squints past Clint at the clear blue sky. “Uh, Clint?”

“Trust me,” Clint says, standing on the second-to-top rung of the ladder, and pushes it backwards from the roof. Halfway through the fall, he leaps from the ladder and somersaults through the air to land lightly on his feet next to Bucky. “Ow.”

Bucky shakes his head. 

“Don’t tell Coulson I did that?”

“Too late,” Bucky says, nodding his head. Clint spins and notices Coulson and Steve coming up the sidewalk toward Natasha’s house. 

“ _ Shit _ ,” Clint says under his breath. “Uh, hi, Sir!”

“Clint,” Coulson says frostily. 

“Shit.” Clint says again. “So, uh, about the roof. I can exp-”

“Later. Is it up to snuff?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“I just don’t see what all the fuss is about,” Steve says, shouldering past them and on into the house. Bucky tries to help him with the heavy bags, but Steve hauls them up onto the counter himself with a terse, “I got it," and a shoulder to Bucky's ribs.

“I’m telling you, this is going to be a rough one. I know from hurricanes.”

“You’re from  _ Iowa _ . What do you know about hurricanes?”

“More than the jackasses on the news, that’s for damn sure.”

“And you’re sure Natasha is ok with us commandeering her home?”

“Yeah. She’s not using it, and better to have someone who can fix any issues now than in three days when the roads to the suburbs open again.”

“Where is she, anyway?”

“I dunno. Off with Nick, somewhere. _Frolicking_."

"Now that I'd pay good money to see," Coulson says, setting out candles and matches and a lantern or some sort.

"Steve, go fill up the bathtub with water.”

Bucky rolls his eyes. There’s no way all of this is going to be necessary. 


	18. Maybe Not the Best Day of My Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So Anonymous asked: what are your thoughts on the I-won-a-date-with-you-in-a-charity-auction (and it's either the start of something beautiful or the night we finally confess or feelings) trope? could it apply to any of your AUs?
> 
> And I said: omg I just cannot stop seeing the CPB gang getting roped into this.
> 
> It’s Nick’s fault, really, and he knows it, and that’s why he’s standing on the dais in his tux while all of New York’s powerful elite philanthropic society watches his life crash and burn as he’s shouting into the microphone, “You can’t all just allow your spouses to bid and then STOP BIDDING. This is for CHARITY. You’re supposed to be RAISING MONEY. Stark, you cannot buy Pepper for FIVE DOLLARS. Steve, you will not punch anyone who tries to bid on Bucky. Bucky, you are not going on Steve’s date with Peggy WITH THEM. CLINT GO PUT ON PANTS. PUT ON A SKIRT. PUT ON ANYTHING BUT DO NOT COME BACK OUT HERE IN ANOTHER PURPLE SPEEDO, CHEESE, I THOUGHT I TAUGHT YOU BETTER THAN THIS.”
> 
> Then caligularib asked: Have CPB Clint and/or Phil ever run into one of their ex's together and how did that go?
> 
> And I said: WHAT IF THIS HAPPENS AT THE CHARITY AUCTION?
> 
> Title from The Bouncing Souls, Punks in Vegas

 

Clint recognizes a few of the guys in their fancy tuxedos from when he took a couple of high-class escort gigs. He learned his manners somewhere, after all. That’s to be expected, this kind of crowd attracts a certain kind of person. They were all nice enough, a little handsy, a little dismissive, but it’s nothing Clint would bother to bring up. 

There’s one guy, though, one guy that Phil is specifically avoiding. Not just avoiding - there are a lot of people Phil has to rub elbows with that he doesn’t particularly like, but he doesn’t generally put a possessive hand on Clint and lead him to the other side of the room, especially when Steve and Bucky are near That Guy - Navy Pinstripe Suit Guy.  

Navy Blue Pinstripe Guy is at the food table, though, so.

“Hey, uh, Sir?” Clint says, properly attired in a plain old boring regular stupid tux now that Coulson stopped laughing long enough to write a five-figure check for Nick. 

(Nick told him in no uncertain terms that they would be having a capital-C Conversation about this. Clint’s kind of intrigued as to whether or not Nick can out-Dom his Dom. Nick’s got a hell of a stern glare on him that mostly makes Clint want to climb on top of the furniture and poke at him, which is how Clint knows it’s a good Dom-glare.)

“Clint,” Phil says, subtly steering Clint away from Navy Pinstripe Suit Guy. Again.

“Did you pass a bad check to that guy? Pee on his bushes? Ooh, did you send over an un-proofread contract?”

“Hush, sweet boy.”

“Seriously, Sir. What’s the deal?”

“It’s nothing.”

“It’s not nothing.”

“Clint,” Phil says warningly.

“Phil,” Clint says back. 

“There are just some people I’d rather avoid speaking to this evening,” Phil says, snagging two champagne flutes smoothly and handing one over to Clint. He avoids making eye contact the whole time. He not-so-subtly turns Clint away from Navy Pinstripe Guy again.

“Is this. Is this about me?” Clint asks. The purple speedo had been a joke, Nick had told him to emphasize his assets. Phil laughed when Nick had introduced him and Clint came out from behind the curtain with his best burlesque moves: ankle first, then knee, bend, flex, spin, shoulder. But maybe, outside of the moment, Phil was having second thoughts. 

“No, sweet boy, no,” Phil says, taking Clint’s face in both of his hands and kissing him sweetly on the lips and leading him out on the dance floor.

“So, what’s with the super spy avoidance act? Seriously, what did Navy Pinstripe do to you?”

“Who?”

“Navy Pin-”

“No, it’s actually Red Dress with the Slit.”

Clint cranes his neck to get a better look. Now that he’s looking at her, not her date, Clint realizes she has been shooting dirty looks Phil’s way all evening. “Nice dress,” Clint says. “Not really my style, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“You’d look better in it than she could ever dream, sweet boy.”

“And that’s why you’re avoiding her,” Clint raises an eyebrow.

“We’re acquainted,” Phil says.

“I gathered. Look, Boss, you don’t want to tell me, fine, but -”

“Intimately,” Phil interrupts. 

“Oh,” Clint says. 

A few silent minutes pass. 

“Huh. Didn’t end well?”

“It did not.”

Clint laughs a little. “How? Did you order a red with fish? Did you not offer her your jacket when she claimed to be cold on the walk home? Did you -”

“I ignored her safeword.” Phil says, turning and stalking off the dance floor. 

Clint catches up with Phil out on the porch. “Phil?”

“I didn’t mean to,” Phil says, his shoulders somehow tightening and his hands clenching on the railing even tighter. 

“Of course not,” Clint says softly. Phil doesn’t look like he wants Clint to touch him, but Clint knows better. He stands next to Phil and gently places his hand on top of Phil’s. 

“It wasn't purposeful. I didn’t hear her,” Phil says. “Or rather, I wasn’t listening. I was still new. I’d never had a sub go non-verbal quite like that before. And I hadn’t really gotten in that head space before. I checked in, of course, but, well, we weren’t communicating properly. I’d never even _thought_ about hand signals or giving her a ball to drop or any of that. It was a bit of a perfect storm,” Phil sighs. “It worked out alright, eventually. She said I caught on pretty early, and that she hadn't even realized it was headed south before it was too late. We talked it out, but she’s still not my biggest fan.”

“Huh,” Clint says. “You okay?”

Phil nods once, but he still looks shaky and pale.

“Sir. Red, yellow, green?”

Phil chokes out a laugh. “Peaches, Clint.”

“Let’s get out of here.”


	19. Rent a Flat Above a Shop

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> CPB Coulson has a story, too.
> 
> Title from Pulp, Common People.

His family is what these days he politely calls  _ well off. _

What they actually are is stinking filthy rich. Phil knows this, had always known it in an abstract kind of way. His family is rich, but they’re the kind of rich who don’t want to make a fuss over it. _Many people are far better off than we are, Philip. L_ _ et’s not call attention to ourselves, now, Philip. _

His parents made a point of informing him that they were fortunate, that while they’d worked for everything they had, some people didn’t make such good decisions, some people weren’t as knowledgeable with their investments, some people frittered their money away on things like unreliable transportation or poor housing choices like renting or they lived outside their means, choosing entertainment and temporary frivolities rather than necessities.

The Coulsons, however, had made wise decisions, because they were smarter than all that. The Coulsons were bootstrap people, and knew that hard work was its own reward, and that persistence and tenacity were the keys to success. The Coulsons worked for a living. There’s no such thing as a hand out for a Coulson, and general disdain was acceptable for those who expected them. Coulsons, especially Coulson women -  _ this is an important quality to look for in a wife, Philip  _ \- give to the less fortunate. By way of charity functions, galas, and donations, of course.  _ It’s best to leave social work to the professionals, Philip. You see, you never know what predicament they got themselves into, and it takes training to help them get themselves out.  _

The Coulson name came with  _ obligations _ , with  _ responsibilities _ , with  _ expectations _ .

Expectations that include a certain reserve, a conservative approach, a specific and frankly narrow range of options.

“Not that there’s anything wrong with being …  _ like that _ , if that’s the choice one wants to make. But Philip,” his mother pressed her lips together disdainfully. It drew attention to the way her makeup had feathered around her lips. Phil couldn’t help but think of how the poor woman at the makeup counter will get an earful when she notices.

His father picked up where she left off. “This rebellious phase simply must end, young man,” and “Philip, you can’t sit there and tell me you find all of  _ this  _ lacking,” and “for god’s sake, Philip, think of your future.” 

Phil honestly can’t remember the rest of the conversation, except that at some point his father said something that struck Phil as crossing the line, which lead Phil to say some horrible things - really vile, hurtful things - out of anger and frustration and being seventeen and not articulate enough around his parents - who are still, really, sometimes, larger than life.

He remembers his mom slapped him. He remembers he stomped off to his room and knocked a vase off the table by the stairs (because he was an adult and mature and capable of making his own decisions and knew exactly who he was. He remembers saying those things. Those words actually came out of his mouth, and he thought he was using them to prove his point.)

Phil remembers he sucked it up and pretended long enough, played the bare minimum of the game and allowed it to strangle him while his parents send him to Harvard law.

Phil  _ hated  _ it, felt like a sell out - which, to twenty year old punk rock Phil Coulson, was the worst thing anyone could ever call him - except for maybe a Wham! Fan. Phil took his self-loathing out on others, indiscriminately. When people found out he was one of _those Coulsons_ , they tended to call him that, and the fists came flying. It wasn’t always, or even often, provoked, but Phil knew what they were thinking.

But also,  _ Harvard Law _ . Sure, he’s a fucking low-life sell-out class tourist, but he’s not  _ stupid _ . His very narrow path will be that much wider with a prestigious degree to throw around. And money, well, it may be the root of all evil, but not having it was even worse.

 


	20. Can't See Anyone Else Smiling in Here

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> temporedoes asked: in CPB-verse, what is Nick Fury’s job, and how do he and Phil meet?
> 
> and I sort of answered it. 
> 
> charlottefever asked: Did Coulson have any notable relationships prior to Clint?
> 
> Title once again from Pulp, Common People

 

Nick runs the label and somehow seems to find himself occasionally breaking up international crime rings. He doesn’t do it on purpose, but it just … happens to him sometimes.

He blames Natasha.

Before the label, though, he was a social worker, and he was damn good at it before the burn out and bureaucracy got to him. When he started spending more time at the bar than at the office, he cashed out his 401k, looked up some old contacts who owed him more than a few favors, and started a music label.

Before  _ that _ , he paid his way through school working as a bartender at The Meathook. Drinks were good, tips were great, and the slinky little dancers liked having Nick around, since all he had to do was glare and customers who wanted a little more than a lap dance would hit the road. 

That’s where he met Phil, seventeen if he was a day but his fake was the best Nick’d ever seen. (Phil made it himself. At the actual DMV.) Nick originally dismissed him as Poor Little Rich Boy, mad at the world for giving his so very much, which he  _ was _ , but there was something else, too. When Phil got a couple of watered down (not that he could tell) drinks in him, when he’d let himself mellow and relax, he was quick, and dry, and fun, and smart, and all sorts of things. 

That Phil only showed up once in a blue moon, though.

Most of the time it was angry, sullen, self-hating, looking-for-a-fight Phil. That Phil was a  _ dick _ .

Nick figured they were, sadly, a package deal. He’d have to protect  _ that  _ guy if he wanted to give the other Phil, the  _ real  _ Phil, a chance to grow up, lose the chip on his shoulder. It could go one of two ways, Phil would either embrace his upper-crust dick destiny, and they’d never speak again, or Phil would become a decent human being. Nick felt it was his duty to ensure the balance of dick to non-dick in the world.

* * *

Coulson had a few relationships, before, sure. But not many, and not terribly serious. Coulson was a lot like Steve in that regard. He was angry as a younger man, was the bad boy who attracted partners who wanted to walk on that side of the street for a while, wanted to bring him home to rile up Daddy, or to pretend with someone playing at being rough trade. The thing about bad boys is they aren’t marriage material, and when the threats to the trust fund come out, rough trade gets traded in.. 

Coulson’s a little ashamed of the way he disposed of people in his younger days. He never lied or told them there was anything more to it than what it was, and he was very careful physically, but he wasn’t always careful with their emotions. At the start of the night it added to the appeal, but there’s only so long being a complete asshole worked in his favor.

Once he grew tired of always being on display, always being a show piece, he focused on his career. He learned that what had always come easily for him and kept him effortlessly in the tops of his classes also came easily to the tops of every  _ other  _ school’s classes, but those people, the competition, also  _ tried _ . If he wanted to be the best - and a Coulson (whether he wanted to be affiliated with The Coulsons or not, he was one) would never settle for less than the best - focus was required. He told himself he didn’t have time for a relationship, and he told himself that his need for control could be channeled into his career. 

And then Nick introduced him to a guy who knew a guy whose girlfriend was into the scene, and he discovered the  _ thing  _ that had been missing. That girl actually left the friend of the friend - not _for_ Coulson, their relationship had been on the skids for a while, but she and Coulson ended up together and it kind of divided their little circle of friends. Then she found the next new best thing and Coulson learned that A. gossip isn’t always wrong, B. people very rarely change, and C. being the center of attention is most assuredly not for him. He’d be better with a sub more like him, someone content to play in the shadows and let their work speak for them. 

(It wasn’t until he met Clint that he understood wanting to maybe show off a little.)

Mostly he kept himself available on an as-needed basis for a few select submissives he’d help out, people Nick vetted and passed along to him, and that was fine. He wasn’t sure he’d ever want someone to keep all for himself. That sounded like an awful lot of work.  And if those feelings ever got to be too much, well, that’s why Phil started writing, isn’t it?   



	21. Amazed That They Exist

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Five Things CPB Clint Barton does not know about one Phillip J Coulson. Also Anonymous asked: Did Coulson start writing his werewolf porn before or after Clint? I am mostly fascinated in how the book reflects there relationship. Does wolf!Coulson get dom drop? Does Clint read the books to try and get Coulson's prospective on there relationship?
> 
> Title from Pulp, Common People. (Yes, again.)

**Five Things Clint Barton Does Not Know About One Philip J Coulson**

1\. Phil’s actual favorite thing about Clint is his completely bizarre perspective on life. The incredibly long, detailed, bizarre debates they have on topics as widely varied as theology, military history, politics, and astrophysics. Second is how sweet he is when he's all soft and subby at Coulson's feet. Third is his arms, because obviously. Fourth is his fashion sense. Fifth is his arms. (They deserve two spots. Because obviously.)

2. Phil’s pretty sure he needs Clint more than Clint needs him. Clint is so strong, and so secure in who he is, and Phil can’t help but admire that. Without a sub in general, and Clint specifically, Phil obsesses over every little thing. He worked 18 hours a day, he micromanaged his way through seven secretaries in thirteen months, he spent all day on Saturdays cleaning.

All.

Day.

With toothbrushes and special tools bought from catalogs he found on airplanes.

Clint makes him socialize, makes him interact with people, makes him more than just an incredibly effective guy in a suit. If Clint ever left him, he’d  _ survive _ , let’s not be dramatic, but he’d sure as hell stop  _ living _ . 

3\. Phil was convinced for the first seven months they were together that Clint had had an affair with Natasha. To be fair, Clint kept referencing the times they went dancing and the nights they slept together and they did have some kind of telepathic ability.  

4\. Phil knows Clint thinks he’s more of a match for Steve, but Bucky’s actually far more Phil’s type than Steve is. This part Clint knows, because they talk about it sometimes. The part Clint doesn’t know is that of all their friends, if he had to pick someone else to be with (in one of those wacky “but if you  _ had _ to” scenarios Clint’s so oddly fond of posing) Phil would probably pick Pepper. Then Bruce. Then Bucky. Steve is actually toward the bottom of the list, right above Tony ("Good god, anyone but Stark.") and right below Darcy ("I'd feel like her father. And not in a fun way."). 

5\. Phil and his family never really got along, especially with them all but disowning him in their upper class pursed-lip way when they found out about his “lifestyle choices” that they “simply cannot agree with, Philip”. They were starting to slowly reconcile about the time Phil and Clint got serious, which Clint was instrumental in, so again, all that Clint knows. What he doesn't know is that communication broke off completely when Phil’s mom referred to Clint as “that white trash mid-life crisis you insist on parading around with”. Phil hasn’t spoken to his family since.

* * *

**Alpha Nights - An Erotic Tale of Supernatural Romance**

**Book One**

 

_ Paul  _ is the alpha wolf and pack leader of a rag tag gang of weres - bound together by circumstance and choice instead of blood like most other packs. In the first book, he’s been called in by his cop buddy who mysteriously knows about supernatural creatures because there have been an increase in “animal attacks”around their sleepy mountain town. 

Now Paul has to deal with a band of vampires who refuse to recognize the centuries-old truce between their kind and the werewolves moving in on his territory, But is it possible that the vampires are innocent? Could Paul's own friend be responsible for the attacks?  Or could it be the thing that's been keeping Paul awake at night, prowling the perimeter of his land, catching a strangely alluring scent on the wind. 

The scent of a feral young lone wolf. 

Can Paul protect the lone wolf from the vampire, the law … and his own growing feelings?

 


	22. Pink Carnation and Black Slacks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Original Characters get their own chapter I guess?
> 
> innytoes asked: What's Jeannie doing for Christmas?
> 
> temporedoes asked: Weird prompt: a few years down the road, do Bucky and Steve ever meet Jeanie's boyfriend?
> 
> Title from Jeanie, Jeanie, Jeanie by The Stray Cats

CPB Jeanie grew up in a small town in Virginia, too far away from DC to be cool, too far away from the beach to be cool, too far away from anything but former coal mines to be anything but a former coal mining town. They didn’t even have a Starbucks, but they had two Walmarts (the good one on the east side, and the other one on the west side of town. She tried to get a job there, because it was within walking distance to the housing projects and she thought if she had to work for the man at least she could take a stand, but her dad forbade her and she got a job at the mini mart selling live bait and beer. Because _that_ was better.) 

Her mom is a teacher and her dad is a banker and they haven’t said three kind words to each other in the last ten years. Her dad comes home, eats dinner, and sits in his arm chair with a basketball game on and a historical biography in his hands. He usually falls asleep in the chair by 9, and goes into the bedroom sometime around midnight. 

Her mom spends all of her time in the kitchen with her hobby du jour. First it was beading, and Jeanie used to help her with that, but sometimes her mom would get angry and frustrated when Jeanie didn’t do it “right”. 

Then it was scrapbooking, but by then Jeanie had no intention of doing anything so suburban, and spent her time locked in her room listening to angry music from kids who also hated their home towns and dreaming about moving to New York. Her freshman year of high school she made on of those paper-link chains with 1215 links (one for every day until graduation) and started saving to move to the city. 

After that it was couponing, but that didn’t last too long. They still have four cases of ranch dressing in their basement. Now it’s pinterest and the paleo diet, but Jeanie doesn’t live at home and can tune mom out when she starts talking about cauliflower pizza crust and sending Jeanie copies of _Wheat Belly._

* * *

 

Jeanie didn’t really pay attention to the others aside from a flashing light in her head going, “hey that’s a friend of Bucky’s MAYBE BUCKY IS HERE oh yeah _Steve_ ” 

When she started paying a little more attention and noticing there were various other people in Bucky’s circle of friends. She listed them out: 

  * BUCKY!! <3 <3
  * Steve (aka Little Black Raincloud)
  * Gorgeous Lady With the Perfect Hair and Vintage Dresses
  * Gorgeous Lady’s Lesbian Luh-vaah
  * Good Looking Black Guy (why couldn’t _he_ be Steve’s boyfriend?)
  * Some Kind of Grinning Surfer
  * Petite Brunette Who Probably Didn’t Surf But Definitely _Rode the Waves_
  * Less Petite Brunette With The Rack
  * Scary Redheaded Singing Girl
  * not as scary, not as redheaded singing girl with TWO good looking boyfriends ( _manic_ and _let’s not panic_ ) (who sometimes make out with each other!!!) (renamed _lucky bitch_ ) (re-renamed _lucky walnut_ because Jeanie was trying to unlearn gendered slurs)
  * Maybe Someone’s Dad?



and

  * Why Does That Guy Sit On The Floo- _ooooooooooh_.



* * *

 

Jeanie goes home to Virginia for Christmas, because her mom ~~guilt-tripped~~  asked her to. She hadn’t wanted to go, but her mom called her right before she headed out to the rec center. There, Bucky and Steve were cleaning up from the 12-and-under art class and arguing about going to see Bucky’s family for the holiday. 

Bucky was saying it wasn’t a big deal and that they’d just been there over the summer, and Steve countered with how Bucky had commented about how much his little sister had changed since the last time they’d been out to visit and how Bucky didn’t want to miss out. Bucky waved him off, but then Steve dropped the hammer and pulled out his stupid giant puppy dog eyes and said something about how people with family shouldn’t take it for granted and Bucky’d just deflated. He’d punched Steve on the shoulder and called him a “dirty cheating fucker who didn’t fight fair”. 

Five minutes later, Thor, Jeanie, Pepper, and Bucky were all standing outside the rec center on their phones making holiday plans with their respective biological families. 

Stupid Steve and his stupid speeches and his stupid tragic past and his stupid blue eyes. 

It turns out to be a really nice trip, actually. 

Thor and Bucky and Clint gave her a quick crash course on basketball before she left, so Jeanie could spend Christmas day in the living room talking to her dad instead of learning about the joys of a NutriBullet and how much energy juicing was giving her mother this winter. Jeanie ended up learning that her dad’s bank won some kind of award in the industry for green energy practices, and that it might not be out of the realm of possibility for her to get an internship at the New York branch. If she’s interested. No pressure. 

She also learned that, fine, whatever, if you put enough strawberries in it, smoothies will hide the taste of almost any vegetable. Whatever, she still didn't want to drink kale and grass.

And when she just can’t with her family anymore, she facebooked a few friends who didn’t manage to avoid coming home and they met up at a bar on the other side of town. Her friend Stacy brought her college roommate Carol home with her, and Carol wanted to show them the video her brother sent her since he couldn’t get out of work for Christmas. 

Her brother looked sort of familiar to Jeanie, kind of like someone she knew or had seen somewhere, but she couldn’t quite place him. He did just get transferred to the city, though, and Jeanie told Carol that she had an in at a great club with a great group of people if he wanted a guide around the city. 

* * *

 

“Did he look…” Bucky uses his beer bottle to scratch the back of his neck.

Steve schools his face. The last four months on camera have helped, he hopes. “What?” 

“Did he look kind of, I don’t know. Familiar?” 

“Little bit,” Steve says, biting his lip. 

“So it’s not just me?”

“Nope.”

“And he looked just like - “

Steve nods. “Clint.“

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for all the confusion! Carol is a name is just picked, no relation to Carol Danvers. Her brother is again, just a guy. Who looks like Clint. In my head, he's Penn from Angel the Series. Only, you know, not a dead evil vampire.


	23. Bitter Situation Gonna Make It Right

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked: Ok, but how does cpb Clint feel the first time he sees stubbley Coulson, glasses and open collar and relaxed and happy to be spending time with Clint outside of proper businessman and his boytoy, does Clint see him with a few bits of armor off and feel a little more like he fits in Coulson's life?
> 
> Anonymous asked: What does Clint get Coulson for his birthdays? He seems like he'd be really hard to shop for.
> 
> Anonymous asked: Has/would Coulson ever get Clint a day collar to wear around?
> 
> Title from Fall Back Down, by Rancid

Because he’s Clint, seeing Coulson casual scares the pants off of him. Or, rather, because it’s Clint, it scares the pants _ right back on _ him. He freaks out and runs to Natasha and Steve. Natasha rolls her eyes and gets him drunk. Steve kind of watches the whole thing, offering advice when he's not drawing it, too. Natasha has the resulting scene framed and hanging in her bathroom, which freaks Bucky out. “The eyes follow you wherever you go!” 

Steve kind of gets it, except, “Don’t you want to be his boyfriend?”

“Yes, but why does he want to be  _ my _ boyfriend? I mean, why would he want  _ me  _ to be  _ his _ boyfriend?”

Which makes Steve threaten to kick his ass if he’s making Clint feel like he’s not worthy or whatever.

Natasha assures Steve that Coulson would never and Steve believes her. Also, Natasha is way scarier than Steve. 

Steve eventually has to leave and the next morning when Natasha wakes Clint up - how in the hell is she so chipper, she drank twice as much as he did! - she talks him down. 

Then he has to go to Coulson and use his words and that sucks, but then Coulson spends the whole weekend with him in his scuzzy clothes and stubble and there’s a lot of cuddling and mushy stuff. And beard burn, because Coulson.

* * *

He is the most impossible to shop for, and Clint has, like zero concept of money. Clint really has no idea how money works. He’d spent so much of his life just not _having_ any, and growing up where five dollars might as well be fifty dollars might as well be five hundred dollars will make a mess of everything. So Clint doesn’t want to buy him anything - if Coulson wanted it, he’d buy it for himself. And buying stuff doesn’t mean you love someone. It just means you have money. 

So Clint… does things for Coulson. Not sexy things. Well, they end up being sexy things, because Coulson is of the opinion that a lot of what Clint does is sexy, and he’s not about to disabuse him of that notion. 

But the one year he put on the silks show for him (that was a big hit - a huge hit. A Clint couldn’t walk right for the good reasons kind of a hit.) and once he showed Coulson his trick-riding act (that one had to wait until three weeks after his birthday, which Clint fretted about, but Coulson said it was perfect, just perfect.

* * *

Coulson did, once, give Clint  a gorgeous collar  for all-the-time wearing. Clint absolutely loved it, and for about a week, everything was perfect. But Clint kind of spent all the time in this spacey, not quite all the way down but definitely not reasonable and rational headspace and it, well, it messed with him. A lot. 

Like, it’s one thing to hang out on the floor of Tony’s lake house or the club or Steve’s shop, and ride that halfway to subspace dopiness for an evening, but when he spent forty-five minutes in the cereal aisle at the grocery store because Coulson couldn’t pick up the phone and tell him if by “corn flakes” he meant actual corn flakes or frosted flakes or if he was just using that as shorthand for any kind of cereal. Like, what if Coulson wanted to use the corn flakes in meatloaf? What if they were supposed to be the topping on a casserole? Coulson had never made a casserole with cornflakes on it - at least not since Clint had been living with him. What if Coulson wanted Clint to make him a hashbrown casserole for dinner? Did Coulson think Clint wasn't earning his keep? Did he want Clint to do more of the cooking? Should Clint do more of the other chores?

The manager had come by and told him he had to buy his groceries or leave, and it was only the fact that Jeanie started her shift before the cops answered the phone that saved Clint from (yet another) embarrassing trip to the slammer. 

Collars were thereafter for special occasions or staying at home or for going out together. They just didn’t work for everyday use. Not for Clint.

Coulson got him a set of thick, heavy duty wrist cuffs instead though to wear everyday, and those made Clint feel safe and loved and supported and left him with the ability to make minor decisions for himself. 

Also, sometimes if he was really  _ really  _ good, Coulson would lock them together and suspend him from the hook in his office that Clint had to stand on his toes to reach. Couldn’t do that with a collar. (Well, you  _ could _ , but Coulson wouldn’t. Not at work, anyway.)


	24. Look So Fancy I Can Tell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked: What aspect of Clint's life was he most scared to give up to Coulson? Like what was he the most terrified to open up about? Is there anything he still keeps from Coulson? In CPB!verse
> 
> charlottefever asked: Pizza is so important. What are the preferred pizza slices/toppings for the cpb!gang?
> 
> Anonymous asked: Were all Clint's Doms bad before he met Coulson? Or did he just have some that were kind of not good enough to keep up with Clint?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from The Cars "Just What I Needed"

Food, definitely, was the big one. Not that he doesn’t trust Coulson, or think he might do anything extreme or anything like that, but. Well,  _ food _ . 

Food is important. You need food to, you know,  _ live _ . (Unless you’re Steve, who apparently seems to take nutrition in through fist fights and righteous anger and feeding other people.) 

It was the last of his limits he gave up. Technically, on their anniversary, when they went officially 24-7 (Coulson’s a romantic, wanted to mark the occasion) Clint said that Coulson was in control of  _ everything _ . Coulson could have pushed the food issue, but he kept it to ordering for Clint at fancy restaurants. 

Which didn’t even really count anyway, because Clint wasn’t comfortable ordering there anyway, and - much to Steve’s chagrin - he’d forgotten every bit of French he learned the minute he turned in the exam. (Seriously, the class after the midterm, the prof had offered five bonus points on the test to any student who could get up and recite the oral portion over again. Clint accepted his 86 without even trying.)

I wasn’t until six months after the anniversary when Clint called Coulson after he left on a business trip and begged asked politely for Coulson to do something,  _ anything _ , to make his head stop. The plane hadn’t even left yet, Natasha hadn’t even met Coulson at the airport yet (Coulson is always stupidly early to the airport) when his cell rang and Coulson calmly answered. He could tell by the sound of Clint’s breathing he needed  _ something _ . 

There was a bit of awkwardness after Coulson calmed him down - turns out the airport bathroom wasn’t as empty as Coulson thought it was. The guy in the other stall turned out to be seat 25C to Coulson and Natasha’s 25A and B. Natasha laughed so hard she had a headache the entire flight to Omaha.

* * *

Bucky, Clint, Tony, Pepper, Natasha, Darcy, Rhodey, and Jeanie are all “give me anything and everything on pizza and I will eat it and like it” type people.

Thor likes tuna and onions, and swears it’s not uncommon where he’s from.  Tony banned him from the club for a month for that.

Maria, Peggy, Phil, Jane, and Sam are your classic topping types. Pepperoni, sausage, peppers, onions,  _ maybe  _ olives and mushrooms. Nothing fancy.

Phil will actually lose his cool over pineapples on pizza. It’s something he and Clint finally had to just agree to disagree on. 

Steve will argue with anyone and everyone about what constitutes “pizza”. Like, sure, philly cheesesteak pizza is _good_ , (Thanks, Clint.) but it’s not _pizza_. Thai basil tofu is _good_ , (Thanks, Bruce.) but it’s not _pizza_. 

“But Clint," Steve argues. Because Steve. "Chocolate chip cookie crust with nutella and marshmallows is not _piz_ \- is that, Buck, is that your second piece?”

“Second  _ pie _ .”

“Oh. Um. It’s not. Y’know. Not,” Steve trails off. 

Clint considers it a win for the good guys.

* * *

“They weren’t all bad.”

“You’ll forgive me if I doubt that," Phil says.

“I’ll forgive you for anything,” Clint blinks up at him. “I mean, you know, I can be a little,” Clint trails off with a complicated shrug-and-hand-gesture. 

And that’s certainly true. Clint is more than just a little shrug-and-hand-gesture. He’s a hell of a lot of shrug-and-hand-gesture. He’s frustrating and complicated and sweet and amazing and challenging and everything anyone should ever want. But  _ everything  _ was also  _ a lot _ . And if this had been a casual affair, Coulson can see (though he’d never, ever admit it out loud) that Clint would be just …  _ too much _ . 

“Not their fault if it’s not worth putting up with.”

“You are more than worth putting up with,” Phil says quickly. Firmly.

“Well, you only say that because you love me,” Clint says, and this is certainly not the time to argue. Not when Clint’s on his knees, teasing and playing and talking to Phil without deflection. No reason to ruin the evening.

“I believe, sweet boy, I was promised something.”

Clint grins, ”Oh yeah? What is it that I said I’d do again?” he asks, sliding up close, slipping his fingers under the waistband of Coulson’s jeans. “Was it … Oh, I remember. I promised you I would be so good, so good, Sir, that you’d have no choice but to come home and ride me.”

Coulson holds in a moan. "Well..."

"Was I good?"' Clint asks, teasing, but Coulson can hear the insecurity underneath. 

“You were very, very well behaved,” he says, voice surprisingly even.

"Very, _very_ well behaved?"

"Very, very, _very_ well behaved."

“So good you’ll let me get the candles and drip the hot wax on me at the same time?“

“That seems to be an awfully big reward, sweet boy.”

“Go big or go home, Sir.”


	25. The Greatest Thing Since Bread Came Sliced

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> charlottefever asked: Where are some places Coulson takes Clint on vacation?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I used your prompt to write half-assed daddy kink? 
> 
> If you haven't read the rest of this series - well, aside from this likely not making a whole lot of sense, just know that Clint and Coulson's whole relationship has been healthily and heartily negotiated to the very finest detail. Even the daddy kink part of it. Even if Clint hasn't quite gotten around to actually saying The D Word. Nothing here is being coerced and everyone is fully, enthusiastically on board. 
> 
> Title from REM's Imitation of Life

 

They usually go some place traditionally vacationy, like The Bahamas or some other beachy place. Clint’s favorite has been the Riviera, but mostly because he spent the whole time acting as if he was a Bond Girl. Coulson had to admit to a certain fondness for playing at being James Bond. And it turned out Clint made the best martinis Phil had ever had.

Coulson had never had a vacation like the ones he has with Clint. Hell, before Clint came along, the last vacation he even took was Spring Break 1982. He’s not sure, but there are probably still places in Daytona he shouldn’t go back to. 

No matter where they ended up, Clint always found some way to get them out of the tourist drudgery. Even when they were on a guided tour of the most insanely touristy spots. Clint will find an out of the way shop, or an off-the-beaten-path restaurant, or just a spot with a really great view and no foot traffic.

Like the time they accidentally lost the tourist group they were with while possibly making out in the historic bathroom of a historic cafe and made a wrong turn down the wrong historic alley and got historically mugged. 

Except Clint wouldn’t give up his watch - 

“It’s just a  _ watch _ , Clint.”

“It’s not just  _ a  _ watch. It’s a very  _ important  _ watch.”

“I’ll buy you another one.”

“The hell you will!” -

and the mugger said, “Give over the watch, come on!” Clint said, “Willy?” and Willy said, "Clint?" and then they all went out for drinks. 

(“That didn’t happen, that was an episode of  _ Friends! _ ” Steve accuses when they come home and told the story. But it _did_ happen, and Coulson backed up the story. Bucky finally told Steve to “let it go, jesus fuc-, um, for crying out loud,” which was censored, Clint’s sure, because ToJu was around and Pepper would skin them alive if she had to have the “But Mama, _why_ are some words not okay for little boys to say? Uncle Steve is a very little boy and he says all kinds of bad words. I hear him all the time, Mama. Do I have to get big like daddy to say bad words? Because daddy says them even more often that Uncle Steve. Or big like Uncle Bucky? Because, Mama, Uncle Bucky is _very_ big. Mama, why are some words bad? If they mean the same thing as other words, shouldn’t those words be bad, too? But Mama. Mama, why? Why, Mama?” It's a good thing Toju's so damn cute.) 

Or the time when Clint accidentally stole a chicken from a restaurant. Not a chicken dinner. A real, live chicken. 

“It climbed in my bag!” Clint says as Coulson pushes him into the shady looking probably-taxi. 

“It’s a full grown show quality rooster, Clint. It did _not_ just climb into your bag.”

“It did! I promise!”

“You have to take it back.”

“I don’t speak Spanish! They’ll think I stole it!”

“You did steal it!”

“I didn’t, Sir! It _climbed_ into my _bag!_ ”

“Well, call Bucky and have him translate. I don’t care. But there had better be only one bird related boy in my hotel room when I get back.”

Or the time Clint accidentally promised Coulson to a shop keeper's oldest daughter because he wasn’t quite as adept at haggling as he thought he was. 

Vacations were never interesting before Clint came around. 

Usually, Coulson can tame Clint’s wilder wanderlust by simply wearing him out. Clint was a little freer on vacation, a little more willing to ease into little headspace and stay there for a while. Or maybe it was Coulson who was a little more in touch with his Dominant side. 

Clint lets Phil pin him to the enormous hotel bed, both his wrists squeezed in one of Phil’s hands while Phil kneels above him. Clint bucks and writhes, but Phil holds himself far enough above him that he can’t find friction. 

“Please, Sir, please, I need it.”

“I know you do, sweet boy,” Phil coos. His free hand pinches hard all down Clint’s sides to his hips. “You will leave your hands right there, won’t you? Like a good boy?”

Clint nods frantically. “I’ll be good, I’m good, I’m so good,” he says. He stutters on the last  _ d  _ sound, and Phil’s not sure if it was a continuation of  _ good _ , or the start of a new word. Clint’s been having a lot of trouble with the D sound in bed this vacation, and Phil would really love to get to the bottom of it. He's not sure if Clint's ready for it, yet. But that's okay. They have time. 

“You are, sweet boy. You are so good.” Phil slowly takes his hand off Clint’s wrists, scratching his nails all the way down his arms. Clint shudders, but otherwise he’s still. Coulson continues scratching across Clint’s chest and stomach, leaving pink lines that don’t come anywhere close to hurting, but that work Clint up into such a state. 

He follows with his mouth, biting gently between praising Clint. “My sweet boy. Such a good boy. Would you like my mouth?”

“Yeah, Da-  _ Sir _ . Yes, yes, _yes_ , please,” Clint says, squeezing his hands together where they’re still clasped above his head.

“Hmm, what was that?” Phil asks him, biting Clint’s inner thighs, ghosting his breath across Clint’s cock, but not touching. 

“Yes, yes, Sir, yes _please_ , Sir, yes,” he babbles while Phil licks curlicues and random patterns from Clint’s navel down to the base of his cock again and again. Back to Sir, then. Phil gives it one more try, slaps Clint’s hip hard on one side, then the other. 

“Tell me what you want, sweet boy.”

“You, I want you, I want your mouth, I want, da - “ Clint breaks off again, whines high in his throat. 

“Anything you want, Clint. Just tell me.” Phil ups the ante and swallows Clint down Clint in one smooth motion, holds him deep in his throat before slowly dragging his teeth ever so gently up the underside of Clint’s cock. 

“Oh, fuck, that’s no fair. More, more, oh my god, please, Sir, please.”

Phil never can deny his boy when he’s begging so pretty. If Clint doesn’t get the full word out this time, there’ll be others. “Yes, sweet boy, of course.”

Clint’s wrists twist and his arms flex, but he’s true to his word, leaving his hands right where Phil left them. It’s better than if Phil had ties him up, because nothing’s holding him in place but his desire to please. 

“You’re so good, sweet boy. Doing so well for me,” Phil praises. “You can come whenever you want.”

“I’m good?” Clint asks, his voice soft and sweet. 

“You’re so good, Clint. Go ahead. Come for me, honey.” Phil squeezes Clint’s hip with one hand, and speeds his strokes on Clint’s cock with the other, rough and harsh. 

Clint sucks in a deep breath, and his whole body tenses before he’s coming with a choked-off guttural sound. Phil has an idea what the word wanted to be.

He settles in with Clint while he comes back to himself, petting Clint’s head and murmuring praises to him. “Good boy,” he tells the top of Clint’s head and Clint wriggles his way impossibly closer. As expected, Clint’s thumb is firmly in his mouth. "Such a good boy for me."

Clint wiggles again and lets out a soft sigh. "Thanks, Daddy."

 


	26. Mohawks in Disarray

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Oh, you mean the really fantastic sex that was so fantastic because one of us was having Thank God I’m Alive sex? That really fantastic sex?”
> 
> Title from Silence is Golden but Duct Tape is Silver by Against All Authority
> 
> I wrote this well before Civil War, so no spoilers, but I am quite pleased that it still works now that the movie's out.

While they were on the road, Bucky spent most of his free time wandering around while Steve did his special Steve-type thing. He was useful to the crew, good for stepping in and helping where he was needed, good for keeping Steve on track when the art threatened to overwhelm him, good for knowing where to put the camera to capture the best shots. He was part of the ideas team, but he mostly left the actual technical making of the show to the professionals.

He ran the website (with some input from Jensen) where people were constantly posting about places The Travelers absolutely had to check out when they came to town. Bucky made it part of his job to do recon on those neighborhoods, see what was to be seen, find any out of the way places to poke around in. Most of the places were generic, some were absolute shitholes (and not the charming kind) but there were a few absolute treasures.

Most of the treasures served pancakes.

Most of the treasures got a personalized, hand-drawn thank-you card from Steve after they left.

* * *

When they pull into another nameless town near the end of this round of filming, Steve heads off to do his thing and Bucky sets off in the opposite direction to do his. They used to send a crew with him to shoot some B roll, but Bucky never could settle with people sneaking around behind him.

(He broke one poor guy’s nose, and he felt really bad about it, but not as bad as he could have. He’d told the guy to stay off his eight. Several times. He’d even drew a clock and shaded it in, “behind me from my six,” point to the clock, point to his own back, “to my eight,” point to the clock, point to behind him again, “just don’t be there. Just. Don’t.” It’s not rocket science.)

After that, Bucky just kept a little hand held thing with him, and if he finds anything worth documenting, he flips it on and does his best. He usually fills in about three episodes worth of content, scattered throughout the season whenever they’re short. The rest ends up as webisodes, tiding over their small but rabid fanbase during their hiatuses.

One time, wandering somewhere in Maryland, he sees a flash of red disappear around the corner. He flips the camera on before registering “Natasha”. He turns the camera back off, ditches it and his phone, just in case, behind a loose brick in an alley, and trails her into a coffee shop.

“Natasha?”

Natasha’s eyes widen just the tiniest fraction. “Cousin James!” she squeaks, in a high pitched, heavily accented voice. “Ah, forgive him,” she says to the man across from her. She continues in Russian, “He never was very smart. James,” she switches back to English. “Be a dear and get me a coffee.”

“Sure,” Bucky says, aware he’s fucked up and stumbled into … something, but not sure what yet. He ambles up to the counter and the large intimidating man Natasha had been flirting with at Peggy and Maria’s wedding slides over to him. It takes him a moment to remember his name, so he orders a couple of sweet concoctions in hesitating, poorly formed Russian. The rusty kind a kid of immigrants trying to escape his roots might use.

Nick’s pulling espresso shots expertly into delicate little cups and whispers, “Please, for the love of god, tell me Clint and Coulson aren’t lurking around here somewhere.” 

Bucky subtly shakes his head. “Just me.”

"Steve?"

Another quick shake of the head.

“You still ready to follow orders, soldier?”

Bucky nods, once, because he's in it now. Whether he wants to be or not. He takes the coffee cup Nick hands him in his left hand, and the pistol Nick slides him in his right. He tucks it into the back of his waistband, hands off the coffee to Natasha, and covers the blind spot where the espresso machine blocks the view of the doorway to the back.

* * *

“You handled that well,” Natasha says, clinking her glass against Bucky’s beer.  He glances around, but Steve’s talking to Nick at the bar, far out of earshot. Bucky’s sure it’s not a coincidence, although Nick did seem genuinely interested in Steve’s work for this episode.

“Thanks. Sorry I almost blew the op for you.”

Natasha shrugs. “Not the worst thing that could have happened. And you got the drop on the fifth guy we didn’t know about. This could have been much bloodier.”

Bucky’d held the fifth guy, a kid who probably wasn’t even supposed to have been there, gun to his temple, talking him down softly while Natasha negotiated on behalf of whoever it was pulling the strings on this whole scene. No shots fired, peaceful (as peaceful as things things can go, anyway) surrender. In part thanks to him.

Bucky kind of wants to throw up. 

And sleep for a decade.

Gonna be a fun month of nightmares, though, Bucky was pretty sure.

“You can ask the questions now,” Natasha sighs. “Can’t say I’ll be able to answer, but I’ll try.”

“Nah. I’ve got experience with people I know turning into superheroes when I turn unexpected corners.”

Natasha raises an eyebrow. “You do.” It's not a question.

Bucky shrugs. “I have depths you ain’t never seen, sweetheart,” he says, affecting an overly exaggerated Bogart tone.

She allows the deflection, for now. “What are you going to tell Steve?”

“Dunno yet. He’s gonna be pissed either way.”

“That you got involved?”

“That he wasn’t _there_.”

Natasha laughs and clinks their glasses together again.

* * *

“So I did something a little dumb today,” Bucky says, sliding the keycard into the hotel door’s lock. He always does it, because Steve’s too impatient and jams it or breaks it or gets into kicking matches with hotel doors.

“Yeah? How dumb?” Steve asks. “Dumb enough that it’s worth telling me about before we get on a bed that’s big enough to roll me over in and that isn’t barelling down a highway?”

“You know,” Bucky says, pushing Steve backwards onto the bed, “It really wasn’t that dumb.”

* * *

“You did _what_?”

“So before you get mad - “

“Too late.”

“I’m fine, they’re fine, everyone is fine.”

“Everyone is _not_ fine.”

“Steve, everyone is _fine_.”

“That’s why we’re having this conversation at _three in the morning_.”

“Steve.”

“Because you didn’t just _wake up screaming_.”

“Steve.”

“From a nightmare _probably_ brought about by your involvement in a _hostage negotiation_.”

“Wait, are you mad at me for helping?”

“Yes!”

“Because you would have … what, exactly?”

“… Shut up.”

“That’s what I thought.”

“Shut up and drink your damn water. Asshole. Are you okay?”

“I’m okay.”

“And everyone else is okay?”

“Yes.”

“You should have told me.”

“But the really fantastic sex, Steve.”

“Oh, you mean the really fantastic sex that was so fantastic because one of us was having Thank God I’m Alive sex? That really fantastic sex?”

“Well.”

“What the hell were you thinking?”

“Stop yelling at me, I just had a nightmare.”

“I’m going to kill Natasha.”

Bucky snorts. “You couldn’t even try.”

“No you’re right. I’m going to. I’m going to. I’m going to tell Clint!”

“Steve, no!”

 


	27. We'll Dress Like Minnie Pearl

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked: what's cpb's favorite outfit to see steve wear? vice versa?
> 
> Title from Punk Rock Girl by The Dead Milkmen

On the road, Bucky wore the same three pairs of jeans over and over again. Sure they were a little tight, but they were pretty well broken in by the time filming was almost over. The waistband just naturally rolled down to sit comfortably under the swell of his belly. The inner thighs were worn soft and thin, but not to holes just yet. They clung to his hips and ass and the back pocket had started to pull away at the seams a little bit, stretched beyond its breaking point. 

But jeans had a way of doing that when they’ve been worn a lot. 

Zippers wear and get more difficult to pull up when they’re old, and it’s hard to maintain balance while dressing in a moving RV. So it makes sense to lie down and zip up that way. That’s the only reason it takes longer to get dressed near the end of the tour than it did at the beginning. 

It’s not really relevant that the RV was parked most of the time he was getting dressed.

It’s not really relevant that Steve spent a lot of time licking and sucking at the marks his jeans leave on his hips, either. That’s just a bonus. 

They came back to the apartment in mid-October, reclaimed the shop from the brother-and-sister team that Clint found at some hole in the wall tattoo shop and dragged home to them like a kid with a lost puppy. They were great, and Steve reassured them that he fully intended to keep them on full time. He was precise yet fast, and she drew the most amazing abstract designs that customers claimed were like she pulled them straight out of their dreams. 

Bucky traded his well worn jeans out for a couple of pairs that weren’t ready to walk off all by themselves. Pairs he’d bought before this round of filming a little big because they’d been on sale. 

At least, he’d thought they’d been a little big. 

It was a long time ago, maybe he misremembered. It’s not like he pays attention when he’s shopping. He goes in, gets what he needs, and leaves as quickly as possible. He doesn’t care so much what he wears, never has. 

Sometimes Steve will ask his opinion on what he’s got on, but it’s more for whether it will work on camera than anything else. Bucky’s stock answer,  “looks great on you, it’ll look better on the floor” is cheating, but it makes Steve laugh even when he’s grumpy and cranky and blowing his nose and smelling like mentholatum, so Bucky considers it a win. 

Steve likes Bucky in band shirts that are just a bit too snug. Bucky spends a lot of time unconsciously tugging them down, which only serves to emphasize the fact that they don’t quite fit, too tight across his shoulders and just a bit too snug over his belly. 

They’ll both wear their jeans out until they’re more hole than material. Steve loves it, though he’s a little concerned that his fascination borders on Tony-levels of narcissism, though, because he’s possessively turned on by his work showing on his husband, the colors of his newest tat on his thigh peeking out from between the threads. It’s hot, though, and Steve learned a long time ago (from Clint, really) that “your crank is turned by whatever turns your crank, and there’s no point in feeling squirmy about it, kid”.

It’s not so much clothes that Bucky likes to see Steve in, that turns him on. Steve’s sexy in a suit, sexy in pajamas, sexy in a burlap sack. It’s that far away expression he wears when he’s lot in the art, when he’s sketching something out and it’s working and Steve is the art. Bucky could (has) sit and stare at that for hours, and it isn’t until Steve shifts, moves and stretches and shakes out his hand that Bucky notices he’s been palming himself through his jeans for the last ten minutes or so. 

Then it doesn’t matter what Steve’s wearing, because the floor is  _ right there _ . 


	28. Goats not Ghosts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> something, something, halloween.

Bucky accidentally ate all the candy they’d bought by the 28th of October, and the replacement candy by the 30th, and the popcorn balls Steve made for the building’s children - Steve hid the real batch in Jo’s apartment. This was not Steve’s first Halloween with Bucky around.

Of course, then Steve came down with bronchitis and couldn't do much more than cough and look miserable, so they planned to stay in and watch scary movies. They’d prepared for it, because, well, Steve, but it didn’t make it any more pleasant. Bucky packed in gallons of Ruby’s special chicken soup, with a cheerful, “feed a cold, Stevie.” 

“Though it was starve a cold, feed a fever,” Steve muttered. 

“Nope,” Bucky ladled out bowls for both of them and handed one over. “Feed a cold. Feed a fever. Feed the flu. Feed the world.”

Steve took the bowl, wrinkling his nose on general principle. He loved Ruby’s soup. “Shut up.” 

“Eat up.”

Steve fell asleep at around seven. Bucky put a witch hat on Steve’s head and texted a picture to all of their friends.

Steve was pretty pissed when he found out because one, he didn't know until he walked into the bakery to buy Bucky pastries for breakfast, and instead was faced with his friends giggling over the picture. And two, he looked exactly the same as he did when he was three and his mom took him trick or treating in the hospital.

Bucky did not get breakfast pastries _or_ the blow job Steve had planned.

Everyone else except Clint and Coulson partied at Tony’s club. (And boy did they party. There are some hangovers that hang on until November third.)

Clint thought this would be the year he finally proved to Phil that their neighbors are definitely aliens - it only makes sense that aliens would come out of hiding on Halloween - but first he had to convince Phil to lift his ban on Clint investigating. Just because he fell off their roof _one time._ He didn’t even break his arm. A fracture is not the same thing as a break.

Phil, of course, was well aware of Clint’s plan, and decided to head him off at the pass. This year, instead of his usual Man-in-Black suit and sunglasses costume, Phil surprised Clint with a full on leather daddy outfit. If… if it could be called an outfit.

Phil felt ridiculous. He’s never been one for the trappings of the scene, and honestly, this was just. It’s just _silly_ is all. He was never going to get into the right headspace dressed like this, and Clint was surely going to laugh at him, and he’s over _fifty_ , what was he _thinking_? He hesitated, reaching for the bedroom doorknob three full times before he heard Clint whistling the X Files theme song.

He didn’t hear anything about aliens for the rest of the night.

The next day they met up with Steve and Bucky and Maria and Peggy to buy all the candy that was on sale while Steve preached loudly at Clint about how the Christmas stuff was already on full display.

Clint had complicated feelings about Christmas, but he loved it when Steve ranted and made the new upper class gentrifiers trying to take over his neighborhood look twice at him like maybe he was another threat to the old-world charm of their new neighborhood. Bucky accused Clint of encouraging him, but Bucky wasn’t too fond of the fact that Eduardo’s Empanadas got run out of town while they were on the road to make room for an artisanal mayonnaise shop. Especially because Clint has to pet every one of the goats and chickens they keep in the back before he’d let them walk past.

At least it wasn’t ghosts.

Coulson threatened to present Bucky with a bill for getting Clint to chant “goats not ghosts” under his breath for the next week and a half. A bill for what, he wasn’t sure, but he’d think of something.  


	29. You're Talented, Kid, We Can See It Clearly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Valentine's advice, care of Steve and Bucky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from Love Your Money by Daisy Chainsaw

Valentine’s Day, the contest is down to Tony and Bruce - 

Pepper backed out hours ago by actually passing out in Natasha’s lap. ToJu’s recently learned how to escape from his crib - 

“He’s not escaping. Our child is not a prisoner.”

“Really, Bruce? Really? He sleeps in a two-by-three box with bars on it and cannot make his own autonomous decisions. What do you call it?”

“It’s called a _crib_ , and we don't let him make all his own decisions because he’s _three years old_ , Tony."

-and Pepper has been awakened by little warm almost-three-year-old hands poking her in the face in the pre-dawn hours for a week straight to ask questions about astrophysics and barn yard animal noises. For some reason, it hasn’t yet occurred to her otherwise brilliant son to go poke one of his fathers, particularly the one who is already awake and making a mess somewhere else in her house and not trying to sleep. - 

and Bucky and Steve, who are, like most years, winning by dint of Bucky not caring and Steve’s sheer mule-headed refusal to lose.

Sam pulls up a chair next to Bucky, but gets up and moves to his other side when Steve pissily calls out “Hey, Wilson! Seriously?” and Sam realizes he’s blocking Steve’s sightline of Bucky and Bucky’s remaining plate of cheese fries.

“I got a question for you, you giant freak,” Sam says, settling in. “How do you solve the crumb problem?”

“The crumb problem?” Bucky asks.

“You know. When the two of you are doing your thing, which no one needs to elaborate on, thank you. And afterward you try to sleep, but you end up with all these crumbs, right?”

“You know the saying, ‘wouldn’t kick him out of bed for eating crackers’? Steve takes that shit literally.”

“But the _crumbs_ ,” Sam whines.

“This becoming an issue for you, Wilson?”

“Not exactly,” Sam says. “But my grown-up-time-friend. She wanted to try something. So I got this chocolate sauce.”

‘Oh, yeah, that’s a good time,” Bucky groans. “Steve likes to -”

“I said no details! I do not want to know!” Sam kicks Bucky’s ankle under the table. “But my girl, she likes to move around, you know, because I am _good_ at what I _do_. But now I got all these nasty-looking stains on my good grown-up-time sheets. I figure, if you solved the crumb problem, the solution would be transferable.”

Bucky sucks some cheese off his middle finger, and across the room Steve shouts, “If you lose this for me, Barnes, that’ll be the only thing you suck tonight!”

Steve’s a little drunk.

Bucky grins before turning back. “We put down towels, Sam.”

Bucky Barnes can’t keep his big mouth shut, and later tells Steve, probably while doing unspeakable things to a pie or something, and Steve makes it his mission to purchase numerous towels for Sam, from the fancy to the ridiculous to the utilitarian to the frightening, and present them with his big angelic eyes and his sweet little smile, “Sam, I heard you could use this,” just as helpful as can be. 


	30. I Think I Could Start A Career At Sitting Next to You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Day in the Life. 
> 
> But that title was too obvious.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from Who You Waitin On by Lucero

Coming back to their lives after the end of the show was like, well, like coming home. Steve and Bucky spent a lot of time debating getting out of bed, deciding to get out of bed, actually sitting up to get out of bed, rolling back over, and staying in bed. 

It was nice just being able to do nothing, alone, for as long as they wanted. They visited their friends, they went to the diner, they got out, but mostly? Take out and bed, baby. 

Eventually, though, Steve grew tired of being cooped up in the apartment. He never claimed he wanted to be an independent man of leisure; he honestly had no idea what to do with himself if he wasn’t getting up to something. Besides, as wonderfully as things were going with Wanda and Pietro and Sam and Peggy and Natasha running the shop, he really did want to get back to work. Steve needed to work, needed to be useful, needed to contribute.

Bucky, on the other hand, thrived with not having anything structured to do with his time. Turned out he was much better off not having to follow a strict regimen for every minute of every hour of every day.  He still accomplished things, he still made an impact. He just didn’t have to do it at any particular time, on any specific deadline. Best of both worlds.

He woke up slowly to find Steve already out and about. Bucky stretched and scratched at his ample belly, wondering absently if that stretch mark was new, or if it was just catching the morning light. He didn’t mind them, of course. Steve fucking loved them, if the way he traced his tongue over every pink line was anything to go by. But he didn’t want anything interfering with the celestial tattoo Steve was building on, working slowly down his chest, over his soft pecs, onto his wide stomach, for now trailing off around his left side and hip. 

Bucky’s body had been a tool for most of his life, a means to an end, something to be used and maintained and worked on. Another responsibility, another requirement. He spent a long while tracing his ink, idly rubbing at his dick. He wasn’t really trying for anything, just kind of enjoying the morning, remembering the way Steve’s long fingers felt the night before. Having his life mapped out for him in a tangible way - the muscles he still had, earned and developed and still used, hauling equipment, lugging tools, fixing and repairing things whenever he came across something that needed a little tending to sitting, waiting, almost hiding under a layer of soft fat. Helping him blend, hide in plain sight. A lurking threat no one would notice until it was too late, underestimated and surprising. 

And on top of that, images and pictures of who he is, who he’s been, all the wheres and whens and whys. The map on his left calf, almost completely shaded in with whatever color each state felt like to Steve, none of them exactly the same. The grayscale brooklyn bridge stretching from his waist across his back, gradually bleeding into a black and then midnight blue night scene, curving over his wide shoulders and onto his chest into a neon bright space scene. The padlock on his neck, the teakettle on his calf, the ONE-O-SEVEN on his pec, til death on his finger, the lily on his foot, and of course the gorgeous work of art that gave him Steve in the first place, half scar and half ink and absolutely, incredibly perfect. 

He figured he should actually get up, stop pressing his hands across the underswell of his belly, stop wallowing in the pride he took in his body, head out for the day. Maybe pick up something to eat and meet Steve for lunch, maybe check in with Sam down at the VA, maybe wander over to the rec center and see if he could help out for a while.

But first, food. 

No. First a shower, finish what he started. Then food.

Maybe pancakes.

Decision made. 

After his shower, he reached for a pair of jeans from the closet and pulled them up his legs. Then he had to check, stupidly, that he hadn’t grabbed Steve’s jeans by mistake.  

Huh. 

He was barely able to pull them on, and managing to get them buttoned was a feat in itself. He flexed and stretched a little, trying to loosen the material. He hadn’t had this pair with him on tour, they must have stiffened up in storage. That was probably why they were so tight. On the final twist, Bucky lifted his knees, blowing out a deep breath and arching his back. He felt the button give, pinging its way with a hollow little sound to land on the ground at Bucky’s feet. 

Feet that he leaned over just a bit to actually see. 

“So there’s that,” he muttered to himself. 

He sat on the bed and performed a tactical analysis. Fact the first: his clothes from before the tour apparently no longer fit. Fact the second: his shirts have maybe felt a little tighter than usual. He didn’t bother to button them most of the time, just wearing them open over a t-shirt. Now, he had to wonder if he even  _ could _ . Fact the third: sex with Steve, while always plentiful and enthusiastic, has been in the last month rather more frequently Steve blowing him and then rutting shamelessly against his stomach, because he’s been too full to do much more than lay there and take it. Bucky pokes at the hickeys trailing their way down his stomach and onto his hip. 

He’d attributed that to just being home, comfortable and relaxed in their own environment again, but maybe, he admitted, maybe he’s put on a some weight. Some more weight; he hadn’t been slim to begin with.

He wondered why Steve hadn’t said anything, folded the edges of his waistband in and figured he'll buy more pants later.

Problem solved. Now, pancakes.

 

* * *

 

Sitting across from Steve at the diner for lunch, Bucky’s little pants problem was the last thing on his mind. 

“So I’m an ass,” Steve says to Bucky after Ruby drops off his grilled cheese and Bucky’s double cheeseburger and extra fries and side salad -

“Salad?” Steve had asked.

“I like salad. Veggies are important.” -

and ruffles his hair on her way past. She’s taken to doing that lately, and Steve’s not sure why, but it makes him feel special. Ruby’s not friendly with just everyone, and he’s never seen her ruffle any other customer’s hair.

“Agreed,” Bucky says, stealing half Steve’s sandwich and putting it precariously on top of his fries.

“Hey!” Steve snatches it back.

“Please,” Bucky says, carefully prying it back out of Steve’s hands and taking a giant bite off the corner. “As if you were gonna eat it.”

“I mighta. You don’t know,” Steve pouts for a second before waving him off. It’s a well worn routine. “Go on.”

“Sure?”

“Yeah.”

“So. Your ass?”

“No, I am an ass. But now you don’t get your apology. Thief.”

“Ooh, a famous Steve Rogers Apology. I’ve only ever heard of those. They’re legendary. Like bigfoot or ROUSes.”

Steve rolls his eyes. “So you know how we go to Clint’s friend’s carnival for my birthday?”

“And then the lakehouse. Yeah, I’m passingly familiar with the thing we’ve done every fourth of July since I met you.”

Steve picks at the crust of his remaining triangle of sandwich. “I forgot about the fireworks.”

“Steve, you spend every second from the time it looks like the sun might possibly be going down loudly wondering if the fireworks are going to start soon. It’s impossible to forget about the fireworks.”

“No, I forgot about you and the fireworks. And how they might not be, you know,” he waves absently at Bucky’s arm. “Your favorite things. Anymore.”

Bucky looks at his arm and then back across the table at Steve. “You love fireworks.”

Steve nods. “Well yeah. But I love you more.”

“Sap.”

“Fuck off,” Steve blushes.

“Fireworks don’t bother me, Steve.”

“Why not?” He actually looks a little perturbed.

Bucky shrugs. He recognizes his triggers, tries his best to avoid them, but doesn’t spend too much time delving into why they are what they are. If he did that, he’d probably never want to get out of bed again. 

He also doesn’t feel like getting into the horrors of black ops in the jungle as opposed to military operations in the desert with Steve. Steve is supportive, Steve listens and helps him and does everything the manuals and the pamphlets and the counselors say, but Steve just. Doesn’t need to know. 

“As long as I know they’re coming, and with you there, pointing to your watch and looking at the sky every three seconds, I definitely know they’re coming, they don’t bother me. Probably it’d be a bad scene if I was surprised by them, so like, don’t replace our alarm clock or anything. But I’m alright.”

“Huh. Okay.”

“You’re still an ass though.”

“Yeah, yeah. You love me.” Steve began talking his ear off, all lit up from within about some project he’s helping “the kids” - Wanda and her brother and some other up and coming artists they know - put together. 

“Because, look, Buck, this show was great, it was fun. We helped a lot of people, right? And I was so worried when we stopped doing the tours that we wouldn’t be able to help people anymore. Honestly, that’s why we even did the last round. Well, that, and I really wanted to go back to the Grand Canyon with you again.” Steve waggles his eyebrows at him in an over-exaggerated leer. 

They had maybe broken the bed in a motel there. 

It was an accident. 

Really. 

There’s no way they could have sheared that bolt all by themselves, no matter how much Bucky weighed - the addition of Steve was negligible, honestly - and no matter what the dirty looks the night manager kept giving them implied. Of course it didn’t help that they couldn’t look at each other without giggling. But Steve had been on top of Bucky, getting himself ready, and the mattress had just  _ given way _ , and Steve  _ literally  _ fell onto Bucky’s dick.

Bucky finished off his burger and nodded while Steve carried on about the art book idea they were putting together, and moved on to the crispy, buttery edges of the rest of Steve’s grilled cheese while Steve brainstormed ideas for the book project’s layout. 

He snorted to himself - of course Steve has capital-F Feelings about fonts - and thanked Ruby when she dropped off another order of fries for him and a refill of Steve’s cranberry juice. 

Bucky forced himself to stop there, though. For one thing, he really was overly full, and he had plans for the day. Nothing pressing, but still. Plans. For another, Steve was preoccupied and hardly noticed what all Bucky was putting away. And sure, he didn’t eat entirely for Steve, but still. If he’s going to work up a sweat, pack himself full until he had to breathe shallowly and rub circles into his gut before he could move, he wanted that effort to be noticed. 

And three, he was very aware of the fact that he had no button holding his pants together, and if he ate too much more, his shirt wouldn’t stretch down over his belly enough to cover it. 

“Oof, I’m so full. God, I ate like a pig.” He stretched, watching as Steve’s eyes dropped to where the material of his t-shirt pulled tight across his belly. “Probably shouldn’t eat these fries,” He bit into one. “But,” Another. “You know,” two at a time. “They’re here. Be a shame to waste them.”

‘“Um.”

“Boys!” An unwelcome voice interrupted whatever Steve was about to say. 

“Tony.” Bucky said. 

“Shove over, triscuit,” Tony said, sliding in next to Steve. “You’re not getting sick, are you? You’re all flushed. I got a kid to think of.”

“Where is ToJu anyway,” Bucky asked, picking up another fry and dipping it in the last of his honey mustard salad dressing.

“That’s not his name. And he’s with his mother and other father at some kind of play date.”

“And you’re not there because?” 

“I’m busy CEOing. I’m very important. Or it’s possible they asked me not to join them this time. I wasn’t harassing the children, no matter what the quack leaders of that paramilitary organization have to say.”

“Pretty sure the rec center playgroup isn’t indoctrinating your child, Tony,” Bucky said.

“Whatever, there’s a lot of chanting - “

“Counting.”

“And I was trying to establish a baseline. My child is obviously brilliant. I was just trying to see how brilliant. Comparatively. So, about the licensing rights.” 

“No, Tony.”

“Bucky, talk some sense into your other half.”

“Tony,” Steve said, jaw clenched. Bucky wasn’t touching that face with a ten foot pole. “I may have done some stupid things with my art, but the safest hands for my work are still my own. Accept that.”

“Come to dinner tonight. ToJu misses you. Well, not you. Bucky. But I think he thinks you’re the same person. Uncle Steve-n-Bucky. We can talk more then.”

“No, Tony. It’s not up for discussion.”

“We’re eating with Clint and Coulson tonight, anyway,” Bucky said.

“Playing favorites? No fair.”

“Well. They are my favorites,” Steve said.

“You’ll come around. It’s a great opportunity,” Tony replied. “What, there’s no more food on this table? That whole plate of fries is gone? Nothing for me to pick over? What kind of operation is this?”

“No I won’t.”

“He really won’t,” Bucky said.

“Will too,” Tony said, standing. He tossed a couple of bills onto the table. “Lunch is on me, fellas. Think about what I said.”

“Never going to happen, Stark,” Steve called after him. 

“Well,” Bucky said, popping the last fry into his mouth. “That ruined the mood, huh.”

 

* * *

 

Clint and Coulson were a little late answering to door when they showed up for dinner that night. Bucky chose not to ask what had delayed them, and wrapped his arm around Steve’s shoulders, his palm conveniently covering Steve’s mouth when it sounded like he was going to. Clint’s mellow demeanor and Coulson’s ginger way of sitting down pretty much provided all the explanation needed as far as Bucky was concerned. 

He’d explain it to Steve later. 

Dinner was a hearty affair, meatloaf, scalloped potatoes, brussels sprouts, and creamed corn. Coulson passed the serving dishes and they each loaded their plates. Clint clapped his hands and exclaimed a loud “yes!” when Coulson produces a basket of dinner rolls. 

“Have you had these yet? Oh, god, they’re Mack’s nana’s recipe and they taste like if butter was in bread form. They introduced them at the bakery around Easter and I swear the line stretched down the block.”

Bucky’s second plate was identical to the first.  Steve filled it while Bucky polished off his third buttery roll, topped with some more butter, and handed it over with a raised eyebrow and a smirk. 

“Oh, you’re on,” Bucky said, making grabby hands. He pretended not to notice Coulson rolling his eyes behind Steve.

The third plate probably should have been the last, and Bucky doubled up on everything except the brussels sprouts. Steve and Coulson polished those off while arguing their deliciousness with Clint. 

“Not even the bacon will make me put those in my mouth,” Clint said.

“And that’s saying something,” Coulson finished, with Steve chiming in simultaneously.

Bucky wanted to snort, but his stomach was getting uncomfortably full by that point. He reached down to adjust the waistband of his new jeans. He’d bought the next size up, but he’d tightened his belt in an attempt to look respectable. Clint had specified. He leaned back a little and gave his stomach a little rub, then finished the last few forkfuls and set the plate aside.

Then Clint hopped up and headed toward the kitchen. “Pie time!” he called out.

Bucky groaned. “There’s pie?”

Steve smirked at him again. “Oh. Did I forget to tell you?”

"You, sir, are an asshole,” Bucky hissed at him. 

“Apple, cherry, pecan, or chocolate silk, Bucky?” Clint called. “There was a special at the bakery.”

“Um,” Bucky hesitated, stalling. “They all sound good.”

Steve’s eyes went wide, and Bucky quickly followed up with, “That’s not what I meant!” 

But as he watched the blush spread slowly across Steve’s cheeks, he reconsidered. “Uh. I mean.  Apple?”

“Oh, for the love.” Coulson rolled his eyes. 

“We weren’t gonna do anything,” Steve pouted. 

“You don’t have to, you’re halfway to coming already,” Clint says. “I know you, you filthy pervert.”

“Oh, really? That’s how we’re playing this? Phil?” Steve asked archly. “How’s sitting treating you right now, huh?”

“Be nice, Steve, they have my pie,” Bucky said. 

“Yeah, be nice, Steve,” Clint said, teasingly holding the pie plate - not a plate of pie, the entire pie plate - above Steve’s head, out of reach. “I have your pie.”

“Actually,” Bucky said, heaving himself up and crowding into Clint. “That’s my pie.” He reached up and took the pie plate out of Clint’s hands. 

Steve let out an involuntary squeaking noise. 

Coulson just shook his head. “Let’s adjourn to the den,” Coulson said, all New England propriety. “Steve, help me with the coffee. Clint, go set up the movie. Bucky,” Coulson gave up and turned back into the kitchen. “Eat your pie.”

“We have a strict no sex in the dining room rule,” Clint said, handing out coffee and more pie.

“This table belonged to my great-grandmother and that’s just,” Coulson frowned. “Unsettling.”

“We aren’t having sex!” Steve said defensively. 

“You’re having sex right now,” Clint shouted back. “Bucky! Tell him.”

Bucky ate a very large bite of pie. “Not my circus, not my monkeys,” he said. 

Clint settled in at Coulson’s feet, tipping his head back against Coulson’s knee. 

“Whadaya call that,” Steve gestured at them while Bucky scooped up another bite of pie. 

“Same thing you call that,” Clint shot back, waving absently at the way Bucky was a quarter of the way through his pie, Steve pressed into his side.  “Also, we don’t have a no sex in the den rule.”

“We do tonight. All of you, hush,” Coulson said in a no-nonsense tone of voice that made Clint sink, Bucky pause, and Steve frown. “This movie is a classic and is not to be sullied with. Whatever this is.”

 

* * *

 

After the movie, Bucky prodded Steve awake while Clint rubbed his eyes with his fists and Coulson whispered something Bucky’s pretty sure he wasn’t supposed to hear about good little boys and bedtimes. 

They got an uber, because while Steve had dozed off through the movie, Bucky had finished the entire apple pie. Walking home was simply not an option. 

“A whole pie,” Steve mumbled sleepily into Bucky’s shoulder, his fingers still tucked tightly into Bucky’s waistband. 

“A whole pie, baby,” Bucky confirmed, shifting uncomfortably in  the backseat. 

“Can’t believe you let me sleep through that.” Steve said around a jaw-popping yawn. 

“Yeah, I’m a monster.”

“A whole pie, Bucky.”

“You needed the sleep.”

“I always need sleep.”

Bucky waited until the car drove off and he and Steve were alone. “Yeah, but now you’re well rested, and I’m settled, and we can go upstairs. No silly rules, no audience, no one to stop us.”

“Oh.”

“Not just a hat rack, Stevie.” He backed Steve against their front door, pressing his full belly against him and leaning in to pin him there. Steve gasped and closed his eyes, his hands sliding up Bucky’s sides, kneading his love handles where the spill over his waistband.

“Inside. Bed. I. Now,” Steve said. 

Bucky smiled. “My thoughts exactly.”

* * *

 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know better than to say that's all, but this is such a nice, round (hah!) number.


End file.
